


Elanor

by The_Morrigan



Series: History Re-Written [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: But there are relationships I swear, Eventual Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Language, F/M, I don't care I love Mary Sues, I'm just trying to get you to click on this, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, SUCH a Mary Sue, Slow Burn, The relationship tags are for EVENTUAL relationships, The romance just isn't the point, are you even still reading this?, fight me, good for you, it's complicated - Freeform, you must be super detail oriented
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 38,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Morrigan/pseuds/The_Morrigan
Summary: The fantasy of waking up and finding yourself in Middle Earth is super unrealistic.In the fantasy, it doesn't matter if you have no weapons training, survival skills or upper body strength. In the fantasy, you're strong and beautiful and everyone automatically likes you. In the fantasy you show up exactly WHEN you mean to, and exactly WHERE you mean to, and you totally end up hooking up with the hottest character with absolutely no consequences.That is NOT what happened to me.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is for language.
> 
> Hello all! Welcome to this 30-something married lady's return to the fanfiction world! This is the first story I've written since I belonged to the Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom in 1999. It is my take on the classic "girl who is clearly the author falls into Middle Earth" scenario, which are my favorite kinds of stories. 
> 
> This started out as something I was just writing for myself, to experiment with characterization and differences in tone. It turned into quite the little project and has the potential to be fairly long. Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!

**One:**

His name had been Olorin, long ago. 

Before he wandered the worlds of Elves, learning from them and teaching them in turn. Before they dubbed him “Mithrandir” and the Men called him “Gandalf,” this had been his name.

Today, he wore the gray pointed hat that had become his customary uniform, and he had forgotten more about the races of Middle Earth than most beings learned in their entire lives, no matter how long those lives may have been. Today “Olorin” seemed but a shadow, trailing after Gandalf as he strode across the realms of Men and Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits, growing fainter as the days darkened.

Today he felt less like Olorin than he had ever felt, but he never forgot what his old name meant:

Dreamer. 


	2. I am 21 years old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Possible trigger warning for a very brief consideration of hypothetical sexual assault.

**Two:**

_I am 21 years old._

_Technically, I was 21 years old last night, when we handed my ID to the bouncer at 11:59pm with an excited cry of, “30 more seconds!” as if we were counting down to New Year’s Eve. He didn’t seem to care, flicking my ID back to me without checking that the second hand had even passed the twelve, and I got to experience being underage in a bar in New York City for 10 seconds before I actually turned 21. The legality of it didn’t seem to concern the bouncer. I don’t think he even carded any of my friends, though they were all above the legal drinking age._

_The thing about being the last of your friends to turn 21 is that they all remember what happened to them on their 21st birthdays, and consider it their karmic duty to impose the same suffering on the next in line. And what’s worse: They all recount the horror stories of their own coming of age on the subway ride over._

_“On my 21st,” says my roommate Kat, “I got so drunk I threw up in my hat.” She says this as if it was some secret rite of passage to which I was not privy, but I have news for Kat: I remember this. I may not have seen the event, but I was the one who dealt with the hat, when she had the drunken presence of mind to bring it all the way home from the bar. “I don’t remember what I was drinking,” she says, but she does. She remembers. She’s canvased all the known witnesses to her own 21st birthday, tracked down the name of the shot, and undoubtedly plans to feed it to me at her earliest convenience._

_I know, on the way, that I am going to get drunker than I ever have before, but I’m looking forward to it nonetheless. At this moment in my life, I think this night is a first of many. The first night I get to go out with my friends instead of waiting up for them, or drinking some of the cheap beers they bought from the gas station on the way home. At this moment I don’t realize that this is actually a LAST time. The last time I’ll be here, with my friends and happy. And so, when I look back on it, those 10 seconds in which I was still 20, before we found the spot to pile our jackets and bags, before the first shot was thrust into my hand, when all I could do was revel in the fact that I was actually out, socializing in a grown-up bar with beer taps and hot wings and hockey on the big screen…those 10 seconds were the best of the night._

_After that it’s all a blur of sounds and smells and Lemon Drops and Purple Hooters and tears and oh my god SMELLS and something called a Boiler Maker and more tears and I’ve-always-been-itimidated-by-you-but-I-think-we-could-really-be-friends and dancing and salt-shot-lime and who sucked their lime first and dancing and falling and a bathroom stall and a puddle on the floor and a banging on the door and glass of water and a cab and a bridge and a bag of chips and another glass of water and a bed and a giant fucking pain in my head right behind my left eye._

_And after that, it’s just silence._

_When you wake up after your 21st birthday, I’ve been told it’s normal to not remember everything that happened the night before. That’s why you surround yourself with people you know you can trust, who will get you home in one piece and do you no wrong. And even though I might not be able to remember the song that was playing when I kissed that guy with the neck tattoo, I KNOW I ended the night alone in my own bed, telling Kat how glad I was that we were friends and how amazing her hair always smelled._

_Which is why I was very surprised to wake up in a field, with grass tickling my face and the sun shining down on my skin._

_My head was pounding, my lips, my eyes even my HANDS were dry, as if the alcohol I’d consumed last night had sucked all the moisture from my body. There were birds chirping in the distance, which sounded to my brain like the screeching of banshees, and I wanted them to DIE._

_Why was in a fucking field?_

_WHERE was the nearest fucking field to my apartment in Brooklyn?_

_I took stock._

_Other than my monstrously appropriate hangover, I appeared to be in good health. I wasn’t bleeding, nor was I sore in any areas. I was still clad in last night’s outfit, which meant that I was wearing a “little black dress.” I’d bought it specifically for my 21st, because I WAS AN ADULT NOW. Kat, it seemed, had taken off my shoes but drawn the line at my stockings, and so those were still on, too. My jewelry was gone, with the exception of the silver ring I wore on my right hand, a Tiffany knock-off I’d bought in Chinatown my first week in New York that if removed would reveal it turned my skin green. I’d paid way too much for it and wore it as a reminder not to be so fucking stupid. My hair was still half up, bobby pins scattered here and there, my scalp aching in the places it had been pulled back too tight. I was sure I’d gone to sleep with my make-up on, which meant my face was probably HORRIFYING._

_My physical health confirmed; my larger problem seemed to be that I had no purse. No cell phone, no wallet, and no keys (which I would need once I finally got back to my apartment). I was still reasonably sure I’d been home at one point, so hopefully these vital things had just been left in the apartment and not lost in a cab or stolen from a bar._

_The most serious issue was that I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there. Unless I’d been taken across state lines in my sleep (unlikely) I had probably just wandered out of my apartment and down a few blocks to Prospect Park. It was early in the morning, I guessed, judging by the position of the sun (because that was totally a thing I noticed all the time), which was probably why there was no one around. Having seen enough episodes of Law and Order to have a healthy fear of parks in the off-hours, I set out for the edge of the park immediately, where I would find a payphone, make a Collect call to my parents and have them read me my roommate’s number (because my parents’ number was the only one I knew by heart) and then call Kat Collect and have her COLLECT me. Nailed it._

_I wasn’t worried._

_Until I started walking._

_And it swiftly became clear to me that I was not in Prospect Park._

_Prospect Park was supposed to have pathways._

_I was a transplant to New York, but I know enough to know that Prospect Park was a man-made park. They didn’t just develop the borough around this perfect swath of land and then stop. It wasn’t a natural preserve, or a last remnant of the wild land of the Algonquin tribe; the park was designed, and in that design were pathways. Playgrounds, dog runs, bike racks, barbecues and a zoo for chrissakes._

_This was just…wilderness._

_After a few minutes of walking, I had to stop. I had to sit. My headache was clearing, and I found a fallen log to collapse on._

_I wasn’t in a park. I was in an honest-to-God forest and I had no idea how I could have gotten there. The last thing I remember was folding myself into my bed after Kat and her boyfriend had dragged me home. And now I appeared to be in the sprawling English fucking countryside, how did something like this happen?_

_How long had I been unconscious?_

_Was I okay?_

_Reflexively I started feeling my body for broken bones, though surely I would have noticed the pain once I’d started moving. It was a panicked response, the first way I could think of to check that I was all right. Physically, it seemed like nothing had happened to me, but I could just be in shock._

_Before I’d moved to New York for college, when it was clear my parents’ only daughter was going to be spending her formative years in such a bustling Metropolis, they had forced me to have several VERY uncomfortable conversations with them, as well as with my older brothers, my pastor and even a school counselor. WHAT TO DO IF this, and HOW TO PREVENT that. I found myself flashing back to those conversations, as I retraced my steps for any signs of assault._

_Had I let anyone else hold my drink? I didn’t think so. Had I gone into any dark corners with any shady people? No. My tights were still on. They weren’t ripped, and the pattern still perfectly straight, which was more than I could expect of any rapist trying to cover his tracks._

_But oddly, the assurance that I hadn’t been assaulted did nothing to make me feel better, because at least I would have recognized those signs. Something would have clicked and I would have solved at least ONE part of the mystery._

_Where was I and how did I get here?_

_By the time I realized I was crying my face was already streaked with tears._

_And as soon as I stopped trying to find a rational explanation, as soon as I let go to the enormity of the puzzle that lay before me, my salvation arrived. He crept up soundlessly, as I suppose he is wont to do, and waited until my first wave of tears has abated. But I bet he was there the whole time._

_“Are you quite alright, my dear?” he asked in a gravely though not altogether unpleasant tone, when I had paused to breathe between hysterical interludes._

_And I froze. Because I recognized that voice. I had done my best imitation of that voice, screaming to my classmates the punch line of a joke: “What happens when you don’t study? You shall not pass!”_

_This was a dream. It had to be a dream. But I looked up nonetheless into a face that I had seen countless times before, first in my mind when I had read those wonderful books. Then, it had been a blur. A hat above a fluid amalgamation of my own face, as all book characters are; partially as the author describes them and partially the reader seeing themselves. And then as I had seen him in the face of the actor who had played him in the movie that I had watched those first few months at school in a strange city, before I had made any new friends, when I still needed the friends I could pack in my suitcase._

_I looked up, even though this had to be a dream, because he could not be here. Not really. I had to be dreaming._

_Because I looked up into the face of Gandalf the Grey._


	3. The Last Homely House East of the Sea

**Three:**

To Bilbo, stepping out of that mountain path and into Rivendell was like stepping into a dream. He was tired and filthy and he smelled worse than he’d ever smelled in his entire life. Racing out his door to catch up to the dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield’s company had left him woefully unprepared for the journey ahead. Since that moment he had seen Trolls and Orcs and Wargs, had run endless distances under the unyielding sun, and as soon as his gaze landed on the waterfalls that spanned Imladris, all he wanted to do was leap into the water and wash for days and days. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he looked up at his friend, Gandalf. The old wizard was smiling to himself, looking quite satisfied, and Bilbo thought it might not entirely be a coincidence that their path had led them here.

Apparently Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of their company, was of the same belief. 

“This was your plan all along,” the Dwarven King spat. “To seek refuge with our enemy.”

“You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield.” The wizard’s tone did nothing to hide the fact that he was utterly frustrated with Thorin’s unwillingness to accept aid. “The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself.” 

Thorin was fuming, staring down Gandalf as if he were a flea, a difficult task considering that the wizard stood two heads taller than he. “You think the Elves will give our quest their blessing?” he asked incredulously. “They will try to stop us.”

“Of course they will. But we have questions that need to be answered.”

Thorin relented slightly, and Gandalf continued to plead his case. Bilbo walked forward to the ledge of the mountain and looked upon the Valley of Imladris. What had Gandalf called it? The last Homely House east of the sea…

When he was a young Hobbit, Bilbo would wander the Shire in search of Wood Elves. A distant cousin—one of the Bolger cousins perhaps? —had told him that the Elves used the passage East of the Shire on their travels to the Grey Havens. He had always longed to see one. Their beauty was said to be unparalleled, their grace hypnotic, and an aura of magic was rumored to follow them wherever they went. In his treks through the wilds—which were actually just the fields nearest his childhood home—he would imagine making such an impression on his new Elven friends that they would invite him along with them to the Undying Lands, and there he would live for the rest of his days, far from his housework and studies.

In all his years of searching, he never found any Wood Elves, though he supposed he never ventured far enough. And as his studies of letters and numbers became the more complicated business of maintaining properties and collecting rents, and his housework transformed from daily chores to the management of his own household, his need to escape to the woods became less and less. He found himself utterly resigned to his lot in life, and that tiny spark in his heart that craved adventure grew fainter. That is, until the day Gandalf the Grey had set that mark on his door.

But now, that same canny wizard had subdued the worst of Thorin Oakenshield’s protestations was gently ushering the company towards the gates of Imladris, and Bilbo felt that same childlike sense of wonder fill him again. He stared in astonishment at the Elven guards on the battlements as they neared the steps, clad in their golden armor, looking more like decorative statues than live soldiers. They barely moved, though their sharp eyes followed the group of Dwarves like a pair of hawks sighting their prey. As the Company neared the bottom of the steps, a melodic voice rang out.

“Mithrandir!”

An Elf was descending the steps, a look of warm recognition in his eyes as he beheld Gandalf, and Bilbo noted that the description of Elven grace did not seem unwarranted. The Elf—was it Lindir, Gandalf called him?—approached them as if floating, and the words he spoke were like a song. He seemed so delicate, so…there was no other word than beautiful—that Bilbo was having a very hard time seeing the threat that Thorin thought them to be. 

That changed upon Lord Elrond’s arrival.

Gandalf had no sooner inquired as to the Elf-Lord’s whereabouts than they heard the horn, and the company of Thorin Oakenshield suddenly found themselves set upon by a host of Elves on horseback. The fierce Dwarven warriors thrust Bilbo to the center of a tight circle as they prepared to face their foe. But it seemed that the siege was merely for show, as none of the Elves so much as drew a weapon, and the leader of their group immediately began conversing with Gandalf in what was unmistakably an easy, almost teasing manner.

This must be Lord Elrond, thought Bilbo, as the Elf dismounted his horse in one smooth motion and tossed an Orc-sword to Lindir. 

“Strange, for Orcs to come so near our borders,” he said. “Someone, or something has drawn them near.”

Gandalf did his best to look sheepish, which Bilbo didn’t believe for a second was genuine. “Ah yes, that might have been us…” he began.

“Indeed,” said Lord Elrond, “we have been expecting you.”

There was a marked change in the air. The threat that had since evaporated at Elrond’s easy manner returned full-force. Had they not already been compromised because word of their quest may have gotten out? All the Dwarves bristled. Thorin took a step toward the Elf as if responding to a threat. Bilbo saw Gandalf’s eyes dart to Thorin for a moment before returning to Elrond’s face. When the Wizard spoke, his tone was cheerful, as if asking his friend to recount a joke.

“Were you?”

“Well,” Elrond smirked knowingly, “we did have reason to believe you may be nearby.” The Elf Lord stepped gracefully beyond Gandalf and the company, looking up at the stairs and smiling. Bilbo turned, along with Gandalf and the rest of the company, and his breath caught in his throat.

On the steps at the gates of Rivendell stood a maiden. She was slender, but she did not seem tall enough to be an Elf, unless she was one of their children. From his vantage point, Bilbo thought her ears were not pointed, yet she was attired in a dress very much like that of the other Elf maidens he could see in the distance. She had long, dark hair that hung lose down her back, and pale skin with rosy cheeks. She was beautiful by any standard, and the grin that split her face only accentuated the sparkle in her eyes. She seemed to be rocking on the balls of her feet, her eyes locked on Gandalf as if waiting for a cue.

Responding to some unspoken request, Gandalf threw his arms open and laughed deeply. The girl rushed forward with such speed that half the Dwarves in the company placed their hands on their weapons. But the threat of this girl was imagined, as they could clearly see how slight she was now that she had come down off the stairs.

She ran to Gandalf and threw her thin, sinewy arms around his shoulders, her head barely reaching his chin. His arms closed around her and lifted her up until her feet left the ground. They embraced warmly, speaking in low hurried tones. The little that Bilbo could hear of their conversation was in Elvish, though now that she was nearer to him, he could clearly see that this girl was of the race of Men. 

Gandalf pulled away to look at her more clearly, holding her by the shoulders at arms length, and Bilbo was struck by how fatherly the gesture was.

“Now, let me look at you,” the old wizard purred, seeming every inch the benevolent grandfather that still lived in the back of his memories, traipsing through the fields of the Shire with fireworks in tow. Gone was the stern advisor to a company of rebels, leaving only a grinning old fool. “Just as beautiful as the day I last saw you.”

The girl smiled even wider, a slight blush crawling up her cheeks. “Thank you, Ada,” she said, and her eyes looked beyond Gandalf, and found Bilbo’s face. 

Immediately, Bilbo was struck by the same feeling he had felt in the mountain tunnels outside of the entrance to the Elven city. It was as if a current was pulling him forward slightly toward her. He had felt the same way on their way into Imladris. In the caves, he had called it magic. Gandalf had not corrected him. The girl was looking down at him in such a way that at first he thought that he knew her. He felt a stab of anxiety one feels when forgetting someone’s name, but it faded as quickly as it had arisen. He had never met this woman, having hardly ever even seen those of the race of Men. But still the girl looked at him with recognition in her eyes, and he wondered, given her obvious familiarity with Gandalf, if the wizard had spoken of him to her.

Lord Elrond stepped behind her, ushering her forward to the company with a hand behind the small of her back. 

“My Lady Elanor, of the woods of Lothlorien,” he said by way of introduction. “She foretold your visit with her sudden arrival at our gates last night.”

Elrond turned his attention to the company and found Thorin. “Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain.”

Looking at Thorin’s face, Bilbo could see him intentionally hide his discomfort at having been recognized by the Elf Lord, his face a careful blank mask as he responded.

“I do not believe we have met.”

The tension between them extended as Elrond explained. “You have your grandfather’s bearing. I knew Thror when he ruled under the mountain.”

Thorin lifted his head, no doubt to deliver a retort, when the Lady Elanor stepped forward.

“Master Oakenshield,” she breathed, her voice low and pleasing to the ear. “It is a great pleasure to meet you.”

Again Bilbo was struck with a feeling of familiarity, as if this girl knew them all already. He looked up again at Gandalf’s face and saw the wizard smile, a hint of pride in his gaze. He and this girl undoubtedly had some secret between them. Perhaps they had spoken of the quest before Gandalf had set out to assemble Thorin’s company. Whatever it was, Bilbo could not help but feel that they had information the rest of them were not privy to. 

Elanor dipped into a curtsy so low that it brought her head down below Thorin’s face, her eyes downcast to the ground. Thorin almost stepped back, clearly taken by surprise by this show of formality. Elanor remained in her curtsy until he gruffly acknowledged her.

“My lady,” he said, and she looked up at him with a smile, coming out of her bow and taking up a place next to Gandalf. Bilbo watched her retreat, and noticed that she looked extremely excited, a flush darkening her already rosy cheeks. Elrond was speaking again, in Elvish, drawing most of the company’s attention away from the strange girl, but before Bilbo looked away he saw Gandalf slip his hand briefly into hers and give it a quick squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thanks for reading. These first three chapters were written together, but updates will most likely be bi-weekly or monthly from here on in.


	4. I am 22 years old...

**Four:**

_I am 22 years old._

_And I am in Middle Earth! There’s just no point in denying it now. It’s been a year since I woke up in a meadow, in the lands just East of the Shire with a wizard staring down at me. And not just any wizard—a wizard I knew better than I knew some of my own relatives. A wizard I knew from books I read in middle school and movies I’d brought with me to college. The movies I put on for background noise while I was doing housework. Movies I watched when I was lonely, when I was sick, when I was too afraid of being alone in my apartment to stand the silence._

_Now I was ACTUALLY here, in Bree, at the Prancing Pony. Gandalf didn’t know why I’d been brought here from “another world,” as he so grandly put it, but he thought it best that I settle in among my own kind for the time being. In the meantime, he is off consulting with the wisest minds of Middle Earth, trying to figure out for what purpose the Valar have apparently sent me here. Gandalf himself seems to have no idea what might be about to happen that would require the divine intervention of the same Valar that had brought him to Middle Earth all those ages ago._

_I, on the other hand, have an inkling._

_I don’t know if it was really the Valar that brought me here. I don’t know if it was God. I don’t know if I was hit by a truck on Avenue B and this was my coma, (Best. Coma. Ever.) but I would be an idiot if I said I didn’t know WHY I was here. And that was why, when Gandalf suggested Bree, I agreed. The Prancing Pony was the perfect place for me to be. It was dirty, it was loud, and it was filled with some of the worst scum I’m sure I could find among “my folk,” but one day it would be filled with Hobbits. One day the door would open and in would walk Strider, ready to escort four Halflings on one of the greatest adventures ever spoken about in this world and mine._

_And I was going to be here when it happened._

_It was this thought that kept me going, because work at the Prancing Pony was AWFUL. I couldn’t believe I’d transcended the veil of a fictional parallel universe to be a waitress, but in Middle Earth it seemed my options were daughter, waitress, whore or wife, and at least this way I got free food._

_I served bread and ale and something called bacon that was DEFINITELY not bacon, and I avoided hands. My association with Gandalf gave me a certain degree of esteem that most of the Men of Bree respected. The Prancing Pony’s regulars learned soon not to pull me into their laps for a “song,” but every once in a while a new traveler had to be taught the same lesson._

_Today was apparently one of those days._

_“Oi, here’s a pretty one!” I heard an unmistakably drunk voice yell, and before I could even inhale the breath I would need to tell him to mind his own business, a meaty hand was around my waist and this paunch-bellied wine merchant’s fetid breath was right in my face._

_“How’d you like to come upstairs with me, darling?”_

_Around the tavern, all the other girls stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. They dealt with this kind of thing on a daily basis, with no Wizard to protect them from it. None of them were particularly happy that I was “off-limits,” and they all resented the fact that the Innkeeper protected me. So on the rare occasion that someone violated my hard-won personal space, the other barmaids not only let it happen, they relished it. There were many rumors floating around as to WHY the Wandering Grey Wizard wanted me to remain unmolested. Some insisted I was his wife, while others thought I was his child. I encouraged all these rumors at every opportunity. The mystery was the only thing that kept everyone following the rules. I certainly didn’t have the ability to enforce Gandalf’s decree on my own. If I would not be touched, it wasn’t because I kept a knife in my boot, nor because I was a tough woman who could hold her own against battle-weary Rangers. It was because the Wizard had paid for it and the Innkeeper agreed. I couldn’t take care of myself; I relied solely on the men around me to protect me from the other men around me._

_At the moment, the men around me seemed to be pretty well split down the middle. The men who had never been to the Prancing Pony before, most of whom were sitting at this asshat’s table, were laughing along. The men who HAD been to the Prancing Pony, on the other hand, had grown suspiciously quiet. None of them appeared to be stepping up in my defense, despite the well-known policies on my handling. I couldn’t see the Innkeeper either, and so I acted accordingly._

_I looked up coolly into this Game of Thrones Extra’s face, keeping eye contact. (I’d learned that most men in this town were so unaccustomed to a women meeting their eyes that eye contact alone could give you the edge you needed in a confrontation.) It worked. He was visibly taken aback, and as I placed my hands so gently onto his, peeling them off my back and my ass, I think he thought I might be acquiescing to his request. Was that fear in his eyes I saw at the thought that I might say yes?_

_“You must be new here,” I said evenly and icily, and drew his hands back down to his sides, turning to walk away._

_And wouldn’t you know it, as if I were the meek, female protagonist in a teen romantic comedy about to be rescued by her alpha male savior love interest, Lord Halitosis grabbed my wrist and pulled me back around._

_“Ay,” he said, pressing my hand to his chest. “Maybe you need fresh blood.”_

_Again I looked into his eyes, and he flinched. Honestly, was it that easy? Do women not LOOK at men in this universe?_

_“If you don’t let go of my hand right now,” I said, articulate and calm, which I had learned was equally as confusing to men in this world, “I may see your blood up close.”_

_It was at this point that this golden age Disney villain noticed that everyone apart from the clueless walnuts at his table was watching this interaction in silence. They appeared to be waiting to see what was going to happen. I looked up into my captor’s face and actually watched the thoughts occur to him. He knew that none of the people in this tavern had any cause to hold their breath waiting to see what HE might do to ME, so the clientele in this place MUST be watching to see what I was about to do to HIM._

_Through all this, I kept looking at him, blinking as infrequently as I could manage, breathing evenly and holding my head and shoulders up. That was something I had learned in an acting class I’d taken my freshman year: Status._

_If you had high status, my teacher had said: if you were important, or powerful, or in charge in any way, you took up as much space as possible, and you did so unapologetically. And if that space happened to infringe upon someone else’s, you simply forced him out until you were the only thing left. Like wolves, to make eye contact was a challenge, and to break it was to give in._

_This collection of stained rags molded into human form seemed to think he had as much status as me, because he stared back at me for a very long moment. But I wasn’t about to give in. I would glower at him until the dawn if I had to in order to show him that I was no less than he was._

_The thing was, I couldn’t try and fight him. Not physically. My upper-body strength was roughly the equivalent to a six-year-old boy’s and the moment I tried to pry my wrist out of his grip was the moment I lost all the power I had. Because there was no way I could actually triumph over this moose in terms of physicality. All he would have to do at this moment was tighten his grip and he could probably break my wrist. My best bet was to lead him to believe that if he chose to do that, he would regret it, but the moment I twisted my arm in his grasp was the moment I showed him just how little strength I had. And that was the moment I let him know how easy it would be to bring me to heel._

_But once again, a man came to my rescue._

_One of the regular drinkers here, a rough-looking man with one eye and a scar across his face clapped my new boyfriend on the shoulder and said something super masculine that made him laugh and let go of my arm. He steered the ingrate back to his table, and away from me._

_At this moment, the Innkeeper swooped in, and rushed to the man, no doubt to offer him a free drink in an effort to get him to forget all about me. I’m sure one of the girls went and got him. While he was placating my jilted ex-boyfriend, the Innkeeper shot me a look. This look clearly said, “go in the back and stay out of the way,” and I did, glad to get out of the spotlight for a moment. My wrist was throbbing and as soon as I reached the back room, I saw that it was red._

_I went straight for the wine. I grabbed an entire jug, and headed up the back stairs to my room._

_This sucked, to be honest. I’d thought, for the longest time, that I would love to live in Middle Earth, but truthfully it sucked balls. I hoped that the next time Gandalf came to visit me, he would have an answer as to why I was here. I hoped that soon I would see Aragorn stride through that door, and things could actually get started. It had been a whole year, after all, which was a very long time to just be hanging around waiting for an adventure to start. At least my wrist was not as badly hurt as I’d thought. The pain had already stopped, and it had returned to its normal color._

_Three glasses later, there was a knock on my door. Even through the haze of wine that was probably just fruit juice left out until it started to smell funny, I still registered that this was a little strange. The Innkeeper never knocked on my door, never came to my room, preferring instead to have very awkward conversations with me split into four or more sections on my way back and forth from the kitchens and my customers’ tables._

_“Come in,” I said._

_“My dear,” came the answer, and I sighed with relief._

_“Gandalf.”_

_I turned to him. He was smiling, and I found myself disappointed at how happy he looked. When would Gandalf come to me with grave news? When would he tell me to look out for his Hobbit companions while he went to consult with the White Wizard of Isengard? He came into my room looking amused and child-like, and as glad as I was to see him, I couldn’t help but think that if he was so happy, he could not be fussing about Frodo’s ring just yet._

_“I’ve heard you’ve not been enjoying the best of comforts here, my lady,” he said. He insisted on calling me that, even though he knew full well that I had no titles, nor a family line to justify such a designation._

_“Gandalf,” I said, pouring him a glass of wine, “what news?”_

_“What news” is just one of the fun phrases I’ve picked up in my self-taught seminar on How To Talk Like You Belong Here. See also: “good morrow,” “take heart,” and “I swear by the light of the harvest moon I speak no ill.”_

_Gandalf smiled, but his smile did not reach his eyes. It stopped short just after his beard and he took a sip of wine. It was all the answer I needed._

_“Still nothing, huh?” I asked, disappointed. Not that I needed to know why I was here. I KNEW why I was here: To help destroy the One Ring. What I didn’t know was when that was going to happen or HOW I had come to be here to do this._

_“I am quite sorry, my dear. It seems your presence in this land must remain a mystery for the time being. But, after my conversation with the Innkeeper, I’m beginning to think that Bree might not be the best place for you.”_

_I sighed. The Innkeeper was apparently tired of buying his customers drinks in exchange for them not raping me. Where, I wonder, would Gandalf wish to put me?_

_“I think it best,” he said, “if we find you residence in another city of Men.”_

_I groaned. “Where, Gandalf?” I asked, exasperated and fueled by drink. “To Rohan?” That would be great, I thought. I could watch the King slowly fed poison in his ear by an evil advisor, with no way to stop it. “To Gondor?” I asked. To be besieged by the forces of Mordor? I might die before I got a chance to do anything worthwhile. If Gandalf moved me from Bree, he might as well stick me somewhere completely out of the story, where I could just live and die a Middle Earth milkmaid. “You might as well send me to Dale.”_

_Gandalf took another sip of wine to disguise the look of confusion on his face. After the sip, he looked more collected, and asked almost casually, “Dale?”_

_His tone carried no hint of recognition whatsoever. And this was my very first clue that something was wrong._

_“The ruined city in the shadow of Erebor,” I clarified, thinking that maybe I had my information wrong. I knew the Lord of the Rings better than I knew the Hobbit, after all. But I had just seen the Hobbit movies, so I was reasonably sure I had the basic information right._

_Gandalf was looking at me with an unreadable expression on his face. It was no longer confusion. Gandalf would never let someone think he was confused._

_“Thorin’s kingdom under the mountain?” he asked._

_Thorin. Yes, that was the name of the main dwarf in the Hobbit. So he DID know what I was talking about._

_“My dear, Erebor is abandoned. Thorin led his people into the Grey Mountains to regroup with their kin.”_

_What? That wasn’t right._

_“No,” I insisted. The wine was making me forget my resolution to “be coy” with Gandalf, and never let him know how much I truly know. “Thorin led a company to reclaim Erebor after it and Dale were destroyed by a dragon.”_

_Gandalf took another sip of wine, WAY too casual for this conversation. I should have known. “We speak of Thorin son of Thrain, of course,” he said, “and father to Gloin.”_

_“Yes,” I said, but then I realized. “No…” I might not be an expert, but I knew that Thorin Oakenshield had no sons, and he certainly wasn’t Gloin’s father. But then I remembered that Thorin Oakenshield had been named after an ancestor who ruled Erebor hundreds of years before he was born. “No, Thorin the Second…” My voice was starting to grow fainter as I realized exactly what this meant. “Thorin Oakenshield,” I whispered, but I wondered if the name would have any meaning._

_I looked up to see Gandalf’s eyes, still devoid of any recognition. “Thorin Oakenshield,” I said again, “who leads a company of dwarves on a quest to reclaim Erebor… After Dale… After Smaug…”_

_Gandalf stared at me, not unkindly, but it was clear that he had no idea what I was talking about._

_“When the Dwarves of Erebor reach the peak of their wealth the dragon Smaug comes,” I heard myself saying. “He destroys the city, and the city of Dale along with it.” The words sounded like a prophecy, but really I was just trying to remember what happened. What year was that?_

_What year did Smaug destroy Dale?_

_I closed my eyes, and I saw it. I saw the Internet article that I Googled after I argued with someone online about how many years had passed between the Hobbit movies and the Lord of the Rings movies. IT WAS A DIFFERENT TIMELINE THAN THE BOOKS, I’d typed in all caps at 3am on Tumblr. ARTISTIC LISCENSE._

_What year? What year? Oh my God, what year?_

_And then, I remembered: Third Age, 2770. That was when Erebor and Dale had been destroyed._

_I opened my eyes, and saw Gandalf, who seemed to be looking at me in a new light. I thought about what I must have seemed like, my eyes closed and muttering to myself. But I embraced the crazy, and looked into the wizard’s eyes._

_“Gandalf, what year is it?”_

_“My dear,” he said, using the endearment he often pulled out when he had bad news for me. “It is the year 2464 of the Third Age.”_

_2464._

_The breath left my body._

_2464\. More than 300 years before Smaug attacks Erebor. I almost laughed. I tried to envision how many mugs of ale I would have to serve before Aragorn or Frodo or even Thorin sat at one of my tables._

_And then I DID laugh._

_And then I fainted._

_Fuck._


	5. Dinner with Elves

**Five:**

The girl bothered him.

In all his dealings with Men, Thorin Oakenshield had few interactions with their women. The occasional clipped order to a serving wench or an inquiry made of a farmer’s wife had been the limit of his interactions during his travels. He had never dealt with a lady of noble birth, which this Lady Elanor clearly was. She was not an Elf yet she was clad in an Elven dress of fine fabric and pronounced value, and she was clearly regarded with great affection by Gandalf and respect by the Elven Lord, Elrond. She was obviously a woman of high esteem, though for what reason, Thorin did not know.

The women of Men were not like those of his kin. A Dwarf-woman was a stout and fierce creature, not to be trifled with nor easily dismissed. On the contrary, the women of Men seemed to have no purpose other than to marry and produce children. They existed merely as ornaments to the men who possessed them (be they husband or father) and were to be looked upon by outsiders with desire and envy. In his travels, Men had either hidden their women away, or else held them up for visitors to covet. And from what he had seen while travelling through the worlds of Men, the more noble the woman, the more useless she tended to be. They were frail things, in his experience, and often had no viable skills other than to be paraded about as an indication of status or importance.

In all the years he had wandered, taking work from any Men or free folk who would offer it, he had never so much as spoken to a noblewoman such as the Lady Elanor. He had never been permitted to. 

But it was not his unfamiliarity with a high lady of the race of Men that made him uneasy about her. There was something…odd about her. A gravity about her that seemed unusual for such a young woman. It was the way she looked at him. She had a strong, penetrating gaze. She never seemed to glance, but her eyes would travel from place to place deliberately and stay for long moments before moving on. A wolf takes direct eye contact as a challenge, and so when the lady’s eyes landed on his face he stubbornly looked back, as he would at anyone seeking to stare him down. But the intensity of his glare didn’t seem to bother her at all. She looked on calmly, and though she looked away first he did not feel as if he had won a victory. Instead he keenly felt the absence of her eyes on him, as when a hot cloth is removed from the skin, and the feel of cold comes rushing back stronger than before. 

He was already on his guard, duped by the trickery of the wizard to trespass on the hospitality of the Elves, but the girl’s strangeness complicated things. 

And now, to make matters worse, they were to have dinner. 

Truth be told, the whole Elf city made him uneasy. He would just as soon be moving on, now the Orcs had been driven away, but Gandalf insisted that they stay and rest. And he could see in the faces of his company that the respite was welcome, particularly so close on the heels of their pursuit by Warg-riders. So he clenched his jaws shut against the admonitions that threatened, tried not to be impressed by the towering, ornate architecture of the Elven halls before him, and followed Gandalf to the table begrudgingly. 

The lady Elanor, he noted, trailed alongside them. 

As he allowed himself to be passively led by the wizard up the steps to the dining area, Thorin stifled a groan as Gandalf pulled out a chair at their own table for the lady. It seemed it would be the four of them dining together, and he looked with a stab of jealousy to the long tables where the rest of his kin sat. At least—he conceded—there was wine, flowing dark and silky from a decanter in the center of the table. He drank deeply of the first he’d had other than water or milk since their meeting at Bag End, and felt the corresponding rush of warmth down his throat.

The girl looked to him and smiled, filling her glass halfway with wine and halfway with water.

“My Lord Elrond’s wine is strong,” she said with a smile. “I cannot abide it pure, but Elves are not easily made drunk.”

Thorin sniffed, ready to assert that Dwarves hold their spirits as well as any other, but felt a sudden rush of lightheadedness from his single draught of wine, and thought there might be some validity to her statement. He resolved to take small sips from now on, and noticed that Elanor was looking at him expectantly. 

Ah. Conversation. He was expected to reply. 

“Wine is a rare indulgence on our travels,” he said, raising an eye to Lord Elrond. “I am glad to have it.” This, he hoped was compliment enough that both his host and Gandalf would be placated. Lord Elrond inclined his head ever so slightly as if in thanks, and Gandalf’s expression became slightly less exasperated, and so Thorin deduced that his comment had been satisfactory. 

“Though I prefer ale,” he couldn’t help himself from muttering. The lady to his right smiled.

The conversation dragged on, as the Elf-Lord probed them with questions. Gandalf answered cautiously, though volunteering far more information than Thorin felt was necessary, and he found himself taking larger sips of wine than intended. Out of the corner of his eye, he could feel Lady Elanor watching him. Finally he darted his eyes up to meet hers, expecting her to look away, for a flush to cover her cheeks as she realized she was caught. But she looked on, staring at him evenly, her blue eyes unblinking. 

Only when one of her eyebrows quirked up did he realize that Gandalf had said his name.

The Elf-Lord was holding out his hand. For a moment Thorin faltered, having not listened to the conversation that had led them here. He did not know what the Elf’s outstretched hand meant, and to ask him would be to admit he had not been paying attention, and to lose what little status he was clinging to at this table. 

The ground he stood upon rapidly fading, Thorin heard the Lady Elanor say softly; “It is an unusual blade, isn’t it?”

Of course. 

The Elf-Sword he had taken from the Troll-hoard. No doubt this Elven King wanted to examine it. At this realization, Thorin regretted that he hadn’t been following the conversation more closely. He would have sooner the Elf not know of the blade he now possessed, unsure as to whether his ownership of it would be protested. 

A quick look from Gandalf made him finally hand over the blade for inspection, and Thorin threw another glance at Elanor. She was sipping her wine-water and looking over at the harpist, in far too casual a manner. He was sure she had been aware that he’d been caught off-guard by her King, and had said what she said to help him. Indignantly, he stiffened. He would not need her help again.

“This is Orcrist,” Elrond was saying. “A famous blade. Forged by the high Elves of the West.” He looked at Thorin out of the corner of his eye. “My kin.”

Thorin watched the Elf-Lord carefully for the moment when his hands would close around the hilt of Orcrist and draw it tighter to his breast. This, he would claim, was an Elven sword and should be returned to its people.

But instead, Elrond handed it back to him. “May it serve you well.”

Surprised, but desperate not to show it, Thorin nodded, and strapped the sword back to his belt, feeling somewhat sheepish. He waited until Elanor’s attention had drifted, and then he took a sip of water.

“And this is Glamdring,” Elrond said, now examining Gandalf’s sword, “the Foe-Hammer, sword of the King of Gondolin…”

The Elf King went on admiring the great sword that the wizard had claimed, giving them a brief history on when they were made. Thorin did his best to look interested, but could not help but be distracted. His kin were laughing raucously at the next table, thumping each other on the back, and he was sure he had missed some great joke. 

Thorin was a stoic Dwarf by nature, the years spent in exile having made him more so, but he still enjoyed listening to the jests of his kin and company. In truth, he could not have asked for a better group of Dwarves to help him undertake this quest. He was surrounded not only by fierce warriors, but by gentle spirits, and true friends. He was their king, but he wished he could be down among them, not up at some High Table trading meaningless drabble with royalty.

“How came you by these blades?” Elrond asked, and Thorin twitched, showing a visible sign of his discomfort for what he hoped was the first and only time.

Elanor sat up straighter as well, as Gandalf seemed to squirm slightly as he deliberated his answer. 

As the wizard responded vaguely that the swords were found in a Troll-Hoard on the East road, Thorin knew that this would only give the Elf cause to ask more questions, and he tensed further. To his incredible irritation, Lady Elanor seemed to respond. She looked over at him with sympathy on her face. Sympathy! As if she shared his frustration with the Elf’s questions and the Wizard’s responses. Sympathy; as if she were part of his company and not a complete stranger.

Annoyed by this girl’s false familiarity, Thorin realized too late that he was missing the opportunity to steer the conversation away from what they had been doing on the East road, which was clearly the Elf-Lord’s next question.

“Trolls!” exclaimed the Lady Elanor, with a hand to her breast. “Trolls and Orc riders. You have been busy.” The last was said with a wry smile to Gandalf, and answered with a wink. “I hope you will take advantage of Lord Elrond’s hospitality and stay to rebuild your strength.” 

She had turned to Thorin with her last sentence, acknowledging that it was he, after all, that decided where his company took their rest.

“Indeed,” said Gandalf. “Perhaps while we are here, you may give Master Oakenshield a reading, my dear.”

The Lady Elanor’s face darkened immediately. The insufferable smirk was wiped off her face in short order, and the color drained from her cheeks. “Ada,” she said in warning, but Gandalf continued with barely a pause.

“My Lady Elanor is a Seer,” the wizard said to Thorin. “She is currently the protégé of Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien. The Lady of Light is teaching her how to harness her gifts. I had hoped that she might be willing to look into our futures for us.”

To his credit, Gandalf kept his eyes only on Thorin, not glancing at Lord Elrond, who might wonder why Gandalf was interested in visions of the future. He also carefully avoided Lady Elanor’s face, which was taut with rage. Thorin spared the girl a glance, but she continued glaring daggers at the wizard next to her. The Elf-Lord, he noticed, was nodding with approval. Of course, all Elves took heavy stock of what they called “foresight.” Thorin had encountered Elvish prophesy before, and found it so full of riddles that one would be hard-pressed to determine if the outcome happened at all. 

“Ada, I am still learning,” said the Lady, her face flushing. 

Thorin scoffed; relieved to find the stony-faced noblewoman looking nonplussed for once, and the Lady Elanor turned an icy glare on him. 

“Do you not believe in prophecy, Master Oakenshield?” she asked.

He turned to the Lady. It may have been the Elvish wine, but he could not help the small smirk that now sat upon his face as he looked at her. With her face red by embarrassment or anger, she looked very much the child, and he found his next words colored with the tone one uses to speak to one. 

“My Lady, I believe in that which I can see with my eyes and feel beneath my hands.”

Indeed she was like a child insisting on a make-believe monster, because at the very suggestion that her “foresight” was not real, she puffed up indignantly. Her dark eyebrows knitted over her blue eyes and the flush of her cheeks spread down over her collarbone, visible beneath the low neckline of her delicate gown. 

“I have had several visions that might prove you wrong on this point, Master Dwarf,” she bit through clenched teeth.

Thorin thought she might want to punch him, and in truth the idea made him want to laugh. He could see the anger peeking through, puffing her cheeks and furrowing her brow, and he thought she looked like a feral rodent. He had a sudden vision of a mouse raging at a bear, and had to take another sip of wine to stop him cackling in her face. He turned away from her, hoping that his casual dismissiveness of the issue may resolve it.

Lord Elrond was also finding refuge at the rim of his wine glass, while Gandalf’s eyes were still on the Lady. Lady Elanor did laugh, but when he heard it, Thorin recognized that it was false. She was offended, he could tell, her beautiful face twisted into false mirth. Clearly the point had not been fully conceded on her part. Indeed, she continued, though her tone had changed to suggest that she found the thought of foresight as trivial as he did.

“I suppose the thought of prophecy is laughable in some cases,” she said, picking up her goblet and swirling the contents. “The way some of them are worded, after all, is ridiculous. Always something like,” she put on a deep voice, “when the ravens return to the mountain, the reign of the beast will be at an end.” 

Thorin froze, his swallow of wine sticking in his throat like a stone. 

Had he not just heard Oin utter those very words at Bag End? Oin was from a respected family that had served those of the line of Durin for generations, and his skills as a healer were unparalleled, and so Thorin had looked beyond the old man’s tendency to occasionally spout portends of doom. 

He had learned to disregard Oin’s attempts to tell the future, but even though Thorin did not see these words as a sign, at the very least he saw them as an indication. If birds returned to the mountain, perhaps it was not as a mystical symbol that all was well, but because they no longer had cause to fear it. Birds avoided predators, and would return when it was deemed safe. Anyone who wandered the wilderland knew to look to the birds as the first sign that a threat was approaching, for they would cease their calls and flee if danger loomed. If they were returning to the mountain, the dragon may have died or moved on, leaving his grandfather’s kingdom unprotected.

Slowly he looked over at Elanor, trying not to let his astonishment show, lest the Elf-Lord ask yet another question. Perhaps it had been happenstance that she had used that example. After all, he did not know where Oin had heard the prediction. But when he looked at the Lady to his left, he thought it no coincidence that she had uttered the very words spoken by a company member at the start of the quest. She took a sip of wine, maintaining very deliberate eye contact with him as she swallowed.

“Who,” she asked, “would be fool enough to follow a prophecy like that?”


	6. I am 45 years old

**Six:**

_I am 45 years old._

_And I have not aged._

_And I don’t mean in a Jennifer Aniston, vegan diet, what’s-her-secret kind of way. I mean I Have. Not. Aged. I am unchanged._

_I am exactly the same as when I was twenty-one years old, when I first found myself plopped into a Peter Jackson prequel. (I sometimes think of my situation as the Incredibly Extended Edition, ha ha.)_

_And then I die a little inside because there is literally no one in the universe I can tell that joke to. Certainly not here, in Bree. I ended up staying here, despite Gandalf’s misgivings about how well I was fitting in. I still don’t fit in. Nobody gets my jokes even when they’re not referencing alternate universe pop culture._

_It is as if I have been frozen in time. My hair hasn’t grown beyond the long layered haircut I’d gotten the week before my birthday. Though the paint on my manicure had faded, my nails remained the same shape and length. If I broke one, it grew back exactly as it had been. My legs and underarms were still shaved, and even my birthday bikini wax was intact._

_I’d be glad about that, but it had caused more than one of the women of Bree to think I was a pre-pubescent girl with two oranges stuffed into her bodice._

_And I had never been sick. No colds, no fevers, no food poisoning, and living here THAT is saying something._

_My trivial injuries, burns or nicks or scrapes, all seemed to heal immediately. I’d been so depressed at the thought that I was going to live and die years removed from any of the stories I’d grown up hearing about this place, but now it seemed I might live to see them after all._

_People were beginning to notice. The rumor that I was Gandalf’s secret daughter had grown to an almost certainty among the other serving girls, who were sure that was the reason I wasn’t aging. It was getting hard to maintain a normal life here when I hadn’t gotten so much as a single grey hair in the last twenty years._

_I bathed last night. I used to consider it a point of pride that I bathed much more often than the other women of Bree. But now I thought that the time they spent between washing had less to do with hygiene and more to do with the fact that bathing was a bitch. The Innkeepers two sons had to heft the heavy wooden tub up the steps to my room, and then it was the long arduous process of filling it. Without running water, the only way to fill the tub was with my kettle, heated in my fireplace. Between constant re-fillings and waiting for each batch to heat, it was impossible to get more than a few inches of water before it all went ice cold._

_I was used to taking freezing cold, shallow baths by now, and just before I stepped in I looked down at the bottom of the dark wooden basin. The still water against the dark background was like a mirror and I saw my own face. It was the same face I’d seen the last time I’d looked into the mirror in my bedroom, back home._

_24 years ago._

_And last night I had resolved to finally speak up about it, because this morning Gandalf would be here. For the first few years, Gandalf had visited me often, maintaining his conviction that we would Figure Out Why I Was Here. But as the years went on and he has had less and less to tell me, his visits grew more infrequent. Now our visits rarely consisted of much besides sharing a pot of tea together. Ten years ago I finally told him that the day he’d found me was my birthday, and the old wizard began sending me gifts._

_Books were my favorite, but he also brought me Elven perfumes and silks, all of which I kept hoarded in a trunk under my bed like treasure. None of the other girls who lived in the rooms above the Inn had ever seen my Wizard-Gifts. They were too special, too fine, and far too likely to be stolen by some of those nasty bitches._

_I was just setting the kettle over the hearth when the knock sounded at my door. I threw it open and couldn’t help but let out a joyful laugh at finally seeing my old friend again. There he was, dressed in rags, his eyes twinkling and his boots caked in mud. He threw his arms open, his hat in one hand and his staff in the other, and I wrapped my own around him._

_“My dear!” he cried._

_Normally Gandalf tried to visit me every year, but this time I hadn’t seen him in over three. As soon as I saw him again, I realized how much I’d been aching to see a familiar face. I held him just a little too long, the way you do when hugging someone really special, and then I released him._

_“Come in, come in,” I cooed, like a happy housewife receiving guests._

_I took his cloak and hat, pulling a chair out for him at my small table. After 24 years, I was the most senior tavern-wench at the Prancing Pony. I supervised the girls like the Madam of a brothel and I had inherited new rooms from the Innkeeper’s mother who had passed away years before. She’d had a small parlor as well as a bedroom in the back of the building, over the kitchens rather than the tavern itself. It was quieter, and I couldn’t think of a better way to wake up in the morning than to the smell of bacon sizzling, even if the scent was often preceded by the death-mewl of the pig it came from._

_It was a much more proper place to entertain guests than the tiny room I used to inhabit here, which had little more than a bed and a chair._

_The kettle boiled, and I had cakes brought up from the kitchen. We talked about his travels, the hilarious happenings of the tavern below, and the book he had most recently brought me._

_“Which reminds me,” he said, and produced a package from his voluminous robes. Where his pockets were, I had no idea. “Happy Birthday.”_

_It was heavier than any gift he had ever given me. It was wrapped in plain linen, tied with a dark blue cloth ribbon. I unwrapped it very curiously, as it clearly wasn’t a book or some other delicate oil or incense from Imladris. This gift had substance to it._

_Is it heavy? Then it’s expensive…_

_The movie quote fluttered through my brain and I chuckled as I unwrapped my present, knowing that it would be completely futile to explain Jurassic Park to the wizard across from me. I would never do it justice._

_I peeled away the last of the linen and found a knife. No, it was a dagger. It was clearly an Elven blade, with beautiful designs across the blade and a dark, gleaming hilt. It was sheathed in a leather scabbard with a belt, and looked brand new._

_“Gandalf,” I breathed in astonishment. “It’s beautiful.”_

_“Made by the Elves of Imladris,” said Gandalf with a smile, and was that the glistening of moisture I saw in his eyes?_

_I placed the knife on the table. This was the perfect moment to bring up my concerns about my apparent immortality._

_“I’m 45 years old today,” I said. Technically yesterday, but whatever._

_Gandalf smiled. “You don’t look a day over 20, my dear.”_

_Wow, what do you know? They say that here, too._

_I jumped on it. “Yes, I know. I DON’T look a day over twenty. Gandalf, I’m not aging. I look exactly the same as I did when I first came here. I don’t get sick, and I’m not getting any older…”_

_Gandalf nodded. “I confess, I did notice.” He held out his hand. “If I may?”_

_A little unsure, I stretched my hand out to him. He took it, turning it so that my palm faced the ceiling. I had often stared down at the lines on my palm, never knowing what they supposedly foretold. Was there some secret hidden in the marks on my hand?_

_Quick as a flash, Gandalf unsheathed my birthday present and cut a long, red gash into my flesh from my thumb to my pinky. I screamed, yanking my hand away from his surprisingly firm grip, and grabbed the long bolt of linen that lay discarded beside me, pressing it to the angry cut._

_“OW OW! ARE YOU INSANE?” I screamed._

_“Forgive me, my dear,” he said, infuriatingly calmly, wiping the blade off and slipping it back into the sheath._

_“Oh my GOD!”_

_Why is it, that in movies and television shows, when someone is making a blood oath or something, and they slit their hands or their arms, they never react as if it is the SINGLE MOST PAINFUL THING ON THE FUCKING EARTH?_

_HOLY SHIT THIS HURT._

_Seriously, why is it always just a manly grunt, and then they SQUEEZE their fists to get the blood out? That’s ridiculous, this hurt like Hell._

_I let out one more unintelligible scream, swallowed the pain, and as the stars receded from behind my eyes, they were replaced with indignant rage directed at the wizard still seated at my breakfast table._

_“What is WRONG with you?” I yelled, wrapping the linen into a makeshift bandage._

_“I do apologize,” he said, “it will all make sense in a moment.”_

_“Oh, I’m SURE it will,” I spat back. “God, no wonder you don’t have more friends.”_

_“In fact I have noticed that you have not aged since the first moment I laid eyes on you,” Gandalf said, rising from his chair and taking what I’m sure he thought was a contemplative stance near the window, one arm propped against the frame, gazing out._

_Into what, I’m meant to wonder…_

_Ugh. SO pretentious. Or maybe that was my BLEEDING hand talking._

_“This is, of course, highly unusual as you are clearly of the race of Men. And since you come from a land in which Elves do not exist, it is highly unlikely that you have Elvish blood in your veins.”_

_“Can we NOT talk about the blood in my veins—”_

_“I can only surmise that your immortality is a further gift of the Valar. For what purpose, I can only guess…”_

_“I think my arm is numb—”_

_Without hearing him move, I suddenly looked up and saw Gandalf standing beside me. With a gentle touch that was a bitter contrast to our previous encounter, he took the end of my homemade linen bandage and began to unwrap it._

_“What—” I began._

_But before I could finish the sentence, my hand was unwrapped, and I saw the wide cut that he had just made on it._

_It was closed. Still pink, and still sore, but it looked like it had been healing for days. In fact, it was beginning to itch as I imagined I could feel it knitting further as I stared down at it, even though I could see no such thing. I’d cut myself a few times working in the kitchens of this inn, but never this badly, so the speed at which I’d healed hadn’t seemed so breathtaking as it did now._

_Gandalf looked down at me knowingly. “In a few minutes, I imagine it will be gone completely.”_

_I looked again at the knife on the table. Why had Gandalf chosen to give me a weapon this year, when he had previously only given me perfumes and airy, feminine things?_

_“The Valar has seen fit to give you these gifts,” Gandalf said. “To be young and at the peak of health forever. To heal from any injury. There may very well be a calamity on the way, for which we may need someone with those very gifts.”_

_He looked down at the knife and smiled._

_“I think it is time we sent you to stay with the Elves.”_


	7. Moonrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the feedback! I really appreciate all your comments and kudos!

**Seven:**

Elanor leaned against the wall sullenly, curving her back against the intricate carvings, swirling the last of her wine in the glass, watching Lindir as he frantically directed a handful of Elves as they did their best to clean up the remnants of the Dwarves’ food fight.

She hadn’t been lying when she spoke of the potency of the wine to Thorin, but Elanor’s enhanced ability to heal also included an Elven-like tolerance for drink. She was not easily made drunk; ale had little effect, and the spirits brewed by Men and even Dwarves were no match for her. But she had wanted to remain clear-headed, and Elvish wine was the only drink that could have even a slight effect on her.

She tossed back the remnants of her goblet and placed it on the tray of a passing server. Dinner was over, Lord Elrond and Gandalf had retired somewhere to talk in secret, and Elanor thought it best that she get out of the way. Poor Lindir was surveying the mess looking like he might cry.

The Dwarves had flatly refused to be shown to rooms after dinner, and instead marched down to an open spot on the grounds. There they had spread their sleeping skins on the ground and were currently smoking their pipes, taking swigs from wine bottles no doubt nicked from the dinner table, and arguing loudly.

Elanor watched them from a distance, stifling her grin as two of the younger Dwarves began a wrestling match to the delight of their kin. Lindir looked up at this new commotion with a slightly pained look, and Elanor smiled at him in sympathy. She did not envy him his job of playing host to a baker’s dozen of rowdy dwarves, but she found their presence to be incredibly refreshing.

Being immortal herself, Elanor had spent the majority of her life among Elves, to whom her constant youth was unimpressive, even though it was unprecedented. She loved the luxury of Elven cities, and had made many friends, but the first place she had ever lived was a city of Men. Every fifty years or so, the staunch propriety of the Elves would become unbearable and she would travel abroad and live for a time among her own people.

She would present herself as a traveling healer—the least threatening of the skills she had learned from the Elves—or as a bard, singing songs for coins. The time she spent in the cities of Men was such a wonderful change of pace. Here were rowdy songs and drinking contests, and stolen kisses in dark alcoves from a people all-too-aware that their time in this life was short. 

She would only stay for short periods of time, as it was only a matter of time before someone noticed that she didn’t age or wanted to marry her. But awkward marriage proposals aside, those years were often the happiest of her long life. She loved the noise, the vulgarity and the grit of a human life, and she was afraid that if she didn’t check in with it every so often, she might forget what it felt like.

Dwarves, it seemed, were even noisier, more vulgar and far grittier than any Man she had ever encountered. And having them here in Imladris seemed like a dream. 

Down in the valley, the wrestling match concluded with raucous cries, and another song began. One of the Dwarves drew out a flute, while others drummed out a beat on the stones with—were those Elrond’s dinner utensils? Elanor stole a glance at Lindir, but he thankfully wasn’t paying attention.

Her desire to be part of the celebration grew inside her like a flame, and she took a few steps forward. Surely she could introduce herself to the members of Thorin’s company individually—it was the polite thing to do. But then as she moved closer she saw him, standing off to the side, smoking his pipe and watching his kin as intently as she was. 

Thorin. 

Even in this hostile environment, it seemed he was able to relax now that he was away from the prying eyes of the Elves. As he watched the antics of his company, he took a long pull of his pipe and breathed it out languidly. There was a smile in his eyes, and now that she was paying closer attention, Elanor could see that he was mouthing the words to the song. He looked years younger, despite the grey streaks in his hair.

Seeing him now like this, Elanor began to regret speaking to him so harshly over dinner. He had wounded her pride, but she had been petty in her reply, wishing to throw him off his guard.

Truthfully she had been absolutely terrified to meet him. It was like meeting a celebrity, someone you had loved and admired from afar for years. All this time she’d had a picture of Thorin Oakenshield in her head, first from the stories from her home, and then from what she read in the histories of Middle Earth. Once she’d come here, she had learned as much as she could about his family line and his life. She knew everything that was currently public knowledge about the famous Son of Durin. 

With all her knowledge it was impossible not to admire him. His deeds had been noble and his hardships great. She had longed to meet him, even though she’d known he would be stoic and distrustful, and particularly on his guard when surrounded by Elves. She had expected that, and could forgive it. But he had laughed at her. He had smirked, red-faced with drink and spoken to her as if she were a child. He had practically patted her on the head and sent her off to bed. She, who was older than he by several centuries! 

Elanor was not some tavern-wench. Not anymore. She was the adopted daughter of Gandalf the Grey, the wandering Wizard. She was the protégé of Galadriel, Lady of Lothlorien, who was a bearer of one of the Elven rings of power. During her first stint living in Rivendell nearly four hundred years ago, Lord Elrond himself had taught Elanor the healing arts. She had learned combat from some of the fiercest Elven captains alive, including Haldir of Lorien. Even the Elves of the Greenwood had heard tale of her beauty and skill, though she had never travelled so far East.

She was not to be laughed at.

But, she reasoned, if Thorin Oakenshield did not like her, then he would not trust her, and if he did not trust her, she could not help him. And she had to help him.

It was time to apologize.

She made sure to make noise as she approached him. She knew how to walk silently enough when stalking prey, but startling an accomplished hunter in a hostile city would most likely not endear her to him, so she kicked a few rocks and crunched a leaf beneath her foot on her way over. He pretended not to notice her as she sidled up next to him, keeping his eyes on his kin.

She said nothing. She had learned the many subtle ways in which power was exchanged among those of noble status in Middle Earth, and so she attempted to give him higher ground by allowing him to acknowledge her first.

“My Lady,” he said, with only a hint of venom. It was the first he’d spoken to her since her recitation of Oin’s prophecy, after which he had hastily excused himself from the table.

“Master Oakenshield,” she returned formally.

He said no more, nor did he look her way, keeping his eyes forward. She did the same, but broke the silence that now descended.

“I think I owe you an apology,” she began. He did not stir. “Foresight is a gift of great responsibility. It was wrong of me to abuse it simply to win an argument. Particularly when it concerns a matter that one might rather not make public knowledge.” 

He took another long inhale of his pipe, exhaling slowly, and cocked his head in her direction. “You know of our quest, then.”

“I do. I would not speak of it,” she assured him, looking into his eyes. “Not if you do not wish me to.”

He said nothing and looked away again. She followed his gaze down to the valley just below, where the Dwarves were now building a fire as the daylight began to fade. They looked a little absurd, making camp in the middle of a city, but Thorin had refused Lord Elrond’s offer of hospitality. Elanor took this as the clearest example of stubbornness, knowing how few feather beds they were likely to encounter on their journey from here on out, but the rest of the company didn’t seem to mind. 

How surreal it was to look down at this group of strangers, and recognize every single one.

On the outskirts of the group were Fili and Kili, the young princes and heirs to Thorin’s line. Little Ori sat in the last ray of fading sunlight, sketching in his book as his older brothers Nori and Dori argued. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur were tending to the fire, while Gloin and Oin poured over sacks of coin and herbs, respectively. Balin and Dwalin were off to the side, looking up at their king, and at her. 

She smiled. Balin’s eyes softened slightly, his face carefully neutral, but Dwalin’s narrowed in suspicion. 

Her first meeting with the company of Thorin Oakenshield was not going well.

Next to her, Thorin appeared to be actively ignoring her, no doubt hoping she would go away. Elanor felt deflated. In all the years she’d dreamed of this meeting, it had never really occurred to her that the dwarves might not like her.

The idea was like a slap in the face, and made her feel absurdly childlike; nearly 500 years old and still worried that the cool kids won’t like her. Thorin himself was still ignoring her, seeming more agitated the longer she stayed. Try as she might, Elanor could not quash her burning desire for Thorin’s approval, and so she was not content to let the conversation fade out, as the Dwarven King would clearly prefer.

“I do wish you would reconsider my lord Elrond’s offer of hospitality,” she said lightly, with a faint nod to the company, laying out their bedrolls on the ground. “There are plenty of rooms to spare. The beds of Rivendell are quite comfortable. And I never turn down a bath whenever I come through here.”

When he turned, it was as if he were rolling his eyes in her direction rather than looking to her, finally acknowledging that she was not going to just go away. It was a wonder he managed to contain his sigh as he reluctantly engaged her in conversation.

“You do not live here, then?” he asked her, barely concealing his tone of annoyance at the forced pleasantries. 

“No, I live in Lothlorien, to the east. I study under the tutelage of the Lady Galadriel. She is teaching me to control and strengthen my gifts. But I did live here for a time…years ago. There is nowhere quite like it.”

As she spoke, she looked up at the sky, the light becoming violet and pink as the sun disappeared. In the distance, the moon was just beginning to rise, and an awkward silence stretched on. Thorin had merely grunted in reply, and she thought better of speaking so highly of the Elven city.

“Of course, I have heard tale of the beauty of Dwarven cities,” she said. “They say the walls of Erebor were so rich with jewels it more than made up for the lack of sunlight.”

Thorin took a long, slow breath in through his nose, and his entire bearing seemed to change with it. He had pulled himself more upright, seeming inflated. Was it the thought of his home that had done that to him? Suddenly it seemed like the weight of twenty years had been lifted off of his shoulders, and all because she had complimented his home. 

“I hope to see that kingdom one day,” she said.

“My Lady,” he said, “you see it every day.”

Her confusion must have been clear on her face.

“This,” he said, reaching out for the jewel at her throat, a round, blue gem in a setting of silver that hung from a thin chain. His touch was not clumsy, nor was it rough, but his fingers closed around the pendant quickly and abruptly, like he was snatching a fly from the air, and she jumped, flinching backwards ever so slightly. 

The moment he saw her reaction, he withdrew his hand, letting her necklace settle back against her collarbone. His brow furrowed, and he looked at her with a quizzical expression. She could practically see him filing away this information for the future: Woman easily startled. Must go slow.

“Apologies, my lady.”

Elanor smiled. His hands had been gentle, though his movements blunt. He was clearly driven by strength and speed, but she marveled at how precise the gesture had been. His fingers had touched only the pendant, not brushing her flesh at all, which would have been far too familiar. Yet he hadn’t thought to seek her permission before reaching for her throat. It would seem even the highest of Dwarven royalty was still somewhat lacking in manners.

Another raucous cry floated up from the Dwarves’ camp, pulling their attention to the fire and away from their temporary awkwardness, and so she decided to ignore his breech of etiquette and forge ahead. She undid the clasp and lifted the jewel back into view.

“This was a gift from Lord Elrond,” she remarked. 

She couldn’t tell if he was relieved that his faux pas hadn’t offended her, or irritated that their conversation must continue. “Ay, the setting is Elvish, but the sapphire was mined by Dwarves.” He busied his hands scraping out his pipe, but gestured to the necklace she held. “Only a Dwarf smith trained in Erebor could cut a gem so precisely with no trace of his hand.”

She had often admired her pendant’s smooth shape, as if it had been naturally buffed into the perfect oval that sat at her throat. 

“It is one of my favorites. It is over 200 years old.”

“Indeed?” Thorin turned fully, seeming actually engaged in the conversation for the first time. “It may very well be from Erebor itself. My grandfather traded gems with all free peoples across the lands.”

“Really?” Elanor was very much enjoying this respite from the Dwarven king’s surly guardedness. It seemed that he enjoyed talking about his home.

A small smile threatened the corners of his mouth. “We did not become the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth by hoarding our treasures.”

The weight of the words hit her, and she tried her best to smile, but she could feel on her face that her eyes showed their sadness as his own face fell, the crushing reality of his statement bearing down on him. The shadow returned to his eyes as he looked away.

Elanor felt a sudden, sharp impulse to touch him; A comforting gesture, like a hand on his arm or on his shoulder. But it would not be appropriate, and so she busied her hands putting her necklace back on. The moon was arisen now, and he had turned his face to the darkness, clearly uncomfortable. She could see his shoulders tense and guessed that an awkward goodbye was soon to follow. She decided to save him the trouble and excuse herself first.

“Well, I should retire,” she blurted somewhat gracelessly. “It is late.”

Reflexively, they both looked up at the moon, and Elanor’s heart dropped.

A crescent moon. The vision shot through her and the words escaped her lips before she could stop herself, “The map.”

Thorin’s head snapped to her. His entire bearing changed. His hands, previously busy with his pipe, were suddenly empty, ready and poised mere inches from his weapons. His face was now fully in the moonlight, his brows knit together and his mouth a tight line. 

“What did you say?” he demanded.

Elanor’s mouth fell slack. She stepped back, but this time Thorin did not pull away embarrassed at having frightened her. He took a step forward, his body taut and the threat clear in his eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dwalin leap up to charge to the side of his king. 

“Thorin,” came the warrior’s rough, accented voice as he approached. It was a signal. He was at the ready, to be called upon to attack if needed. Seeing them both round on her—dark-eyed and dangerous—was terrifying.

Elanor should have gasped, wide-eyed and cowered, apologizing profusely. She should have made some excuse and calmed the ire of this warrior king and his general. If she truly had been the meek, non-threatening maiden she appeared to be, she would have.

But Elanor had studied hand-to-hand combat from the Elven soldiers that guarded the borders of Rivendell. They had taught her to wield both sword and dagger, and she’d had hundreds of years of practice on the Orcs that dared draw too close to the borders of Imladris. In the years that she’d lived in Lothlorien, her focus had shifted to the study of magic, but all it took was for Dwalin’s hands to tighten into fists and her defensive instincts took hold.

Her left foot came forward, her right foot back. Her weight shifted and her knees bent. And though she managed at the last second to keep from actually raising her arms, her hands folded into fists and her eyes zeroed in on the spot at the side of Dwalin’s skull where she would aim her first blow.

“Everything all right, brother?” came a kind and all-too-calm voice as Balin came upon them. 

Elanor dropped her stance almost as soon as she had assumed it, and realized that the other Dwarves had gone completely silent down below. They still tended their fire and smoothed their sleeping skins, but each one had an eye on her, and on their leader. Each and every one of them was waiting for the slightest cue from Thorin that she might be a threat. What would happen if he gave it to them, she wondered? Would they strike out at her in the middle of the city in which they were currently seeking shelter? Or would her status as Lord Elrond’s ally save her from all harm? Either way, it would not help her to appear more dangerous than she had to.

Dwalin showed no sign that he noticed her sudden shift in stance. Perhaps it was because he considered her a threat even with her eyes downcast and her hands at her sides, but Thorin had seen it. She had only been in fighting stance for a split-second, but he was looking at her with hard, untrusting eyes, and she lamented that she may have just undone all the good work of their friendly conversation.

When he spoke again it was not as harsh, but his voice was icy and firm and unmistakably the order of a king.

“What did you say?”

She swallowed and looked at Balin. Surely he wouldn’t let them hurt her? If not out of concern for her, but because he had a more diplomatic nature and would realize that attacking her was essentially declaring war on Rivendell itself. She took a small, slow step toward Thorin, noting how Dwalin tensed, his hand actually wrapping around the hilt of the knife at his side. She lowered her voice and spoke directly to Thorin.

“Your map,” she said very softly, and heard Balin’s sharp intake of breath. Dwalin was practically vibrating with rage, but Thorin did not stir. He had asked a question and he expected an answer. She tried her best to block out all the other eyes on her, though her instincts screamed not to let down her guard with Dwalin so intent to bury an axe in her back. She chose her words carefully.

“You cannot read it, but there is one here who can.”

Balin looked up at Thorin before stepping towards her. “How do you know of this?” he asked.

“I am a Seer,” she reluctantly admitted, the ridiculousness of the words bringing a blush to her cheeks.

Dwalin scoffed, making a gruff sound like the bark of a Warg. “Fairy stories,” he muttered. 

She ignored him. Hadn’t she proved herself to Thorin over dinner? Or did he still not believe her? “You must show the map to my Lord Elrond. Tonight.”

“Nonsense!” Dwalin was saying. He began to rail against her, that this was no doubt a trick; that she was trying to fool them with claims of magic and foresight. Balin tried to calm his brother, asking her in a reasonable tone how she came to know of the map. But she ignored them both. She looked directly into Thorin’s eyes, unblinking even as Dwalin spat his accusations at her. As the Dwarf warrior inched towards her, his brother’s calming hand on his chest, she reached her hand up to the jewel at her throat; The sapphire from Erebor, crafted by his kin in the glory days of the Dwarvish Empire.

Thorin took a breath and drew himself up. He held up a hand to Dwalin, which quieted his rage. “We will consult with Gandalf,” he said to Balin.

Balin looked unhappy with this decision, but nodded, casting a distrustful look Elanor’s way. As his king began to walk away, he followed, stopping briefly to face Dwalin.

“Perhaps it’s best you stay here, brother,” he said not unkindly. “Get some rest.”

Dwalin looked up at Thorin, and the slightest of nods confirmed the order to stay behind. Dwalin looked after his kin for a moment before his eyes came to rest on Elanor’s face again. He was still fuming, but Elanor was confident that he would not harm her if Thorin did not order it. Not while they were in the Elven city. She met his eyes full on, careful not to affect too satisfied an expression. She had won a small victory over this warrior Dwarf, which would be made more strained if she chose to gloat. And so she merely looked at him long enough to make it clear that she was not about to scuttle away in fear, and with as much grace as she could muster, bowed her head respectfully, and turned to walk away.

But she was not some soldier to be commanded to stay behind, and so she gathered up her skirts and followed Thorin into the night.


	8. I am 80 years old

**Eight:**

_I am 80 years old._

_And I kinda think the Elves hate me._

_When I first came to Rivendell, they thought I was cute. I honestly can’t blame them, given the way I had freaked out at my first sight of the place. Actually setting foot in Rivendell was like getting to go to Disneyland, Hogwarts and the Playboy Mansion all at the same time._

_First of all it was beautiful—filled with vibrant leaves and golden rays of sunlight and gorgeous, ethereal people as far as the eye could see. It was also exactly how I’d pictured it. There in front of me were the towering columns, the great stone archways, the sculptures, the artifacts, and the murals depicting the history of Middle Earth._

_And the BATHS._

_Here was the pinnacle of civilization in Middle Earth. This was no linen-lined wooden tub like I’d had in Bree. At the Prancing Pony it had been hard to tell if the water was dirtier when you got out of the tub than it had been when you stepped into it. But the bathhouses in Rivendell were pristine and hygienic. There was actual RUNNING WATER, both hot and cold. There were scented oils, lotions and the basins were stone rather than wood—thank the gods. (I had gotten splinters in places where one should never get splinters.)_

_I spent my first few days in Rivendell squealing with absurd excitement at every little luxury its residents took for granted. Is it really that surprising that most of the Elves began to think of me as a pet when I was constantly exhibiting the unbridled enthusiasm of a Border Collie? The first time I met Elrond, I cried._

_But after a while I suppose the Elves started to get tired of me. After my novelty wore off, it became more apparent every day that I did not belong here._

_I learned the Healing Arts, but without a natural propensity for Elven magic, it took me years to learn what Elves could pick up in a few days. They may live forever, but it was the rare Elf who had the patience to be my teacher. Luckily, Elrond had taken a liking to me, and so I learned from him when he had the time to teach me. His free days were few and far between, but eventually I learned all there was to know and soon I needed to find another hobby._

_To say that the Elves of Rivendell were enthusiastic about my need to learn a new skill would be a bold-faced lie. The moment it was known that I was looking for a trade and a teacher, all of Imladris basically turned into the school bus from Forrest Gump. Elves would avoid eye contact with me when I walked down the halls, change direction mid-stride to avoid me. And all because I’d been a little slow to learn the Elvish healing magic that had been a part of their culture for millennia! How rude._

_I assumed they thought I would be just as slow to learn everything. After all, they had never encountered a being quite like me before—they probably thought all immortal, bald-legged, child-women learned at the same pace._

_The entire thing made me spiteful and full of intense need to prove myself. I was closing in on 80 years old, after all. If I’d lived a normal life this would be about the time I was fighting with my grandchildren about being put in a home and insisting that I didn’t need a walker despite my sciatica. I was a stubborn old broad, and determined to show these little thousand-year-old whippersnappers a thing or two._

_So I started playing the harp._

_I had been an incredibly musical child. Piano lessons were followed by violin lessons, which transitioned into guitar lessons during my rebellious High School years. Sure, it had been a while since I’d picked up an instrument, but that sort of thing got into your bones. Once I’d worked out the basic notes on the harp, I tried out the Elven flute, and then moved on to their lute. Soon I was learning so fast that the other Elves could barely keep up with me._

_I tried not to show off._

_I failed._

_And one by one, they all started to get over themselves. An Elf named Varda helped me with my technique on the harp, as intrigued as the others as to how quickly I’d seemed to pick up the instrument. She even played her flute and we jammed together. I taught her “Hot Cross Buns.”_

_And once I started, it all came flooding back. I remembered songs I hadn’t heard in decades, and the best part was; I was the only one who’d ever heard them before. The first time I played “Yesterday” by The Beatles, one of Lord Elrond’s sons CRIED, and I cheered everybody up by playing the theme song to Full House._

_Some lyric changing was necessary of course, and I’d found that none of the Elvish instruments could really do justice to Beyoncé, but by then I’d become something of a phenomenon in Rivendell. Not only were the more musically inclined Elves starting to respect me, but the great thinkers and craftsmen of Imladris were soon coming to hear me play as well, and I managed to convince several Elvish artisans to help me craft an instrument that would best suit my musical talents._

_And anyway, that’s how I ended up inventing the Elvish Guitar._


	9. The Map

**Nine:**

Elanor was sick with worry. She kept her distance as Thorin and Balin conversed in hushed tones with Gandalf. Thorin’s eyes kept shooting over to her face, dark and untrusting. Nervously she chewed on her thumbnail and berated herself for her stupidity. You only get one chance to make a first impression—that was how the saying went, and she had made an awful first impression on Thorin, blurting out his secrets so carelessly. It would take a miracle to make him trust her now.

They were in Elrond’s study, the Elf in question standing patiently to the side as the Dwarves argued with the wizard. This room was familiar territory to her. Many a night she had sat here, pouring over the countless books and volumes in Elrond’s possession, chronicling the history of Middle Earth. How many times had she let her candle burn to wax reading about the House of Durin? Just above them sat the shards of Narsil. How often had she stared at that mural—Isildur cutting the One Ring from Sauron’s hand—until the sun had set and the room had been bathed in moonlight?

Now she felt like an intruder, trailing behind Lord Elrond’s robes, not wishing to interfere any more than she already had. She tucked herself in a corner, watching as Gandalf argued with Thorin, who flat-out refused to show the map to Elrond. Even Bilbo looked more at ease here than she felt. 

“Save me from the stubbornness of Dwarves,” Gandalf cried, looking to her. 

Thorin looked over at her, and if possible looked even more annoyed, his eyebrows knitting together. Elanor really wished Gandalf would leave her out of this. It was one thing for him to push Thorin to do something against his will—they were traveling companions and equals—but she was already off to a rocky start with the Heir of Durin, having both wounded his pride and betrayed his trust in the few hours since their introduction. It wouldn’t help her to seem like she and Gandalf were ganging up on him.

Thorin’s glare was accusing, as if this were all her fault. None of this ire, she noted, was directed at Gandalf. He would be forgiven, it seemed, and she blamed. She tried her best to convey a wordless apology back to Thorin, but his icy stare never wavered as Gandalf entreated him once again to show Lord Elrond the map. Slowly, his eyes fixed on her face; he drew the map from his pocket despite Balin’s protests. As Elrond examined it, Thorin finally looked away, but his meaning had been clearly understood. Whatever happens now, his eyes had said, I blame you.

“Erebor,” said Elrond. “What is your interest in this map?”

Thorin opened his mouth to respond, and Elanor clearly saw the resignation in his eyes. The game was up, as far as he was concerned, but Gandalf spoke before he could.

“It’s mainly academic,” the old wizard said lightly. “As you know this sort of artifact sometimes contains hidden text.”

If Elrond didn’t believe Gandalf’s easy manner, he kept that to himself, and Thorin looked curiously from Gandalf’s face to hers. At this vote of confidence from Gandalf, she lifted her chin a little higher. The wizard had just let the Dwarves know that their secret was still a secret, despite the fact that Elanor knew it. They were on the same team.

“You still read Ancient Dwarvish, do you not?”

Elrond held the map up to the light streaming in from outside. “Ithildin,” he whispered. 

“Moon Runes, of course,” Gandalf breathed, “an easy thing to miss.”

Poor Bilbo looked like he’d been suddenly dropped into a foreign country where he didn’t speak the language. Elanor could relate. Most likely everyone else in the room knew what Moon Runes were except him, and it was clear on the Hobbit’s face that he had almost no idea what was going on. Thorin and Balin looked torn between immensely satisfied and supremely disappointed that Elrond had actually found hidden text on the map.

“In this case that is true,” Elrond was saying. “Moon Runes can only be read by the light of a moon of the same shape and season as the day on which they were written.”

Elanor stared at Thorin, waiting for the moment when his eyes would dart to her again. Any moment now he would remember that this whole endeavor started because she had looked at the moon and mentioned his map. That she had told him he must show it to Elrond TONIGHT. Any moment now he was going to realize the significance of all these things, and he was going to look at her. And it was going to take every ounce of her self-control not to stick her tongue out at him when he did. 

He glanced.

She flicked her eyebrows up once, doing her best to convey a thousand “I told you so’s” into that one gesture, and he looked away just as quickly.

“Can you read them?” he asked Lord Elrond.

Deciphering Moon Runes was essential to the translation and duplication of many of the Dwarven texts in Elrond’s library, so there was a special station for it built into a cliff on the borders of Rivendell. As Elrond led them out of the study and in the direction of the cliff, Elanor noticed Bilbo lagging behind.

“Are you coming?” she asked.

It seemed to take him a moment to realize she was speaking to him, but when he did he jumped, looking in the direction the others had gone, and then back the way he came. “I’m not sure I should,” he stammered.

“You’re part of the company, aren’t you?”

To that he laughed, a clipped and humorless half-scoff. When she didn’t laugh along, his face dropped abruptly, as if he was afraid he’d said something wrong. “I’m not sure of that either.”

He seemed nervous, and so she took a few steps toward him and gave him a kind smile. “You’re Bilbo, aren’t you? Lord Elrond introduced me to the company, but no one thought to introduce the company to me.”

“Yes,” he said more enthusiastically. Everything seemed to click into place for him the moment good manners were reinstated. He was nervous and unsure in the face of deciphering the hidden symbols in an ancient map, but an introduction he could manage. “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, at your service.” He gave a little bow, a hand over his heart.

“Lady Elanor of Lothlorien,” she said, completing the ritual even though he’d heard her name already. She extended her hand, which he took after vigorously wiping his own on his jacket. He held it awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do with it now that he had it, before he brought it to his lips and gave it a sharp, wet kiss.

She withdrew her hand with a smile. “Well Master Baggins, you’re more well-mannered than the rest of your company. Shall we?” She gestured in the direction the others had gone, and he followed reluctantly.

“Thank you,” he replied to her compliment, “though truthfully I’ve not much in common with any of them. For example I’ve no reason to mistrust Elves. Er—that is…” He tripped up at that, unsure if she would be offended, since Elanor was obviously not an Elf.

“I understand completely,” she said. “I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t truly fit in.”

He seemed incredibly relieved that she wasn’t offended. “How do you manage it?” he asked in earnest.

“Well,” she gave him a kind smile, “the most important thing you can do to fit in is to make sure you really want to.”

She left him with that, as they had arrived at the cliff-face. Bilbo looked out at the shimmering moonlight, reflected a thousand times by the towering waterfalls that surrounded them, and he drifted out further, transfixed like a moth to a flame. Elanor stayed near the entrance. Immortal though she was, the steep drop beyond the cliff made her dizzy, and she already knew what Elrond was going to read off that map. 

“Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole.”

She was far back by the entrance, and the rushing waterfalls swallowed the voices of the five figures before her, so she couldn’t actually hear the words, but she remembered them. She had written them in a journal years ago, could have recited them over dinner if she had been asked. But always she heard the Lady Galadriel’s voice in her head.

“You must learn, little one, when to interfere and when to let events unfold without your influence.” 

There were some things the company of Thorin Oakensheild had to learn on their own terms, and so she stayed back and watched without hearing as the runes were read. She watched the Dwarves conference and Elrond, unable to deny the truth for much longer, admonish Gandalf and turn to walk away. He came as close to storming out as one could manage while still remaining majestic, but stopped when he passed Elanor.

“And I suppose you knew about this?” he asked her. His tone was resigned, and she took it as a great compliment that he didn’t see fit to pretend to be angry with her. She tried to mimic the tiny smile that Lady Galadriel always offered up in situations like this, peeking at him through her eyelashes demurely, and when he walked away she saw him struggling to hide a smile of his own.

After a moment Gandalf followed him out, giving her hand a quick squeeze as he passed. She would have followed, but Thorin and Balin were talking intently, and Bilbo had been abandoned. She decided to wait for him, so that they might resume their conversation. She felt great sympathy for the Hobbit, left on the outside as the two Dwarves continued to ignore him. They headed toward the exit without a second glance at Bilbo, leaving him trailing behind in their wake. This irked her a bit, but when they also stomped past her, practically colliding with her when she refused to scuttle out of their way, without so much as a nod of acknowledgement, her temper got the better of her.

“You’re welcome,” she barked after Thorin, her words echoing through the cavernous halls, and he froze.

“You suppose I should be thanking you?” his icy voice rang out. He turned slowly, dangerously, but Elanor was unimpressed and impatient with his theatrics, and pointedly rolled her eyes as he continued. “For what? For betraying us to your Elf-Lord, or for waiting until after dinner to do so?”

Whatever it was that tended to make short people overtly aggressive, Dwarves had it in excess. Elanor had about a foot of height on Thorin, and out of politeness she had avoided calling attention to it. 

Up until now.

She marched up to him and didn’t stop until she was inches away, pointedly bending at the waist until their faces were even. Thorin didn’t move away, but his body tensed as she came close, bristling with insult at the emphasis of her height. 

“I did not betray you to my Elf-Lord,” she repeated, over-enunciating each of his words to show their ridiculousness. “I am trying to help you.”

“Why?” he hissed, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. “You have no stake in our quest, no connection with our company.”

“That’s not exactly true, is it?” Bilbo piped up. Thorin turned to the Hobbit as if just noticing that he was among them. Perhaps it was true—the Dwarf King had other things on his mind and Hobbits were easily overlooked. Elanor thought it more likely that it was an intentional slight to remind Bilbo of his own insignificance. 

If that was the case, it didn’t work, as Bilbo stepped forward to continue, addressing Elanor directly.

“Ada,” he said. “The name you called Gandalf at the gate. It means Father, doesn’t it?”

Elanor was surprised. Not that Bilbo had figured out the meaning of this fairly simple foreign word, but that he had outed her without hesitation. Particularly given their pleasant conversation earlier. She would have at least expected him to talk to Gandalf before he revealed her secret so completely. It seemed his loyalty lay more firmly with the Dwarves than any of them realized.

“You speak Elvish, Master Baggins,” she replied, taking a few steps back from Thorin to meet the Hobbit’s eyes. She was trying hard not to feel hurt.

“Yes…well, no,” Bilbo stammered, shaking his head. “A word here or there. I’ve read a great deal about Elves.”

“Father,” Thorin repeated the word as if testing it for weaknesses. His tone was skeptical.

She met his mocking gaze icily. “Yes,” she said firmly. His stubbornness was taxing her already short temper. 

“No wizard has ever fathered a child.” Thorin continued.

The thin, stretched line that was the last of her patience snapped spectacularly. “Bravo, it seems Bilbo is not the only one who’s read up on other races,” she barked.

The reaction to her remark was immediate and pronounced; sarcasm not being something the peoples of Middle Earth were accustomed to. Thorin’s face shut down completely, a sure sign that he was offended. His mouth became a tight line and his eyes bulged slightly. Balin looked absolutely scandalized. Bilbo, on the other hand, looked like he was hiding a smirk, and Elanor remembered that Thorin had not been particularly kind to the young Hobbit up until this point in their journey.

Before anyone could say anything, she backtracked. “I’m sorry, I meant no offense.” She closed her eyes and took a long, steadying breath and prayed for the strength to keep from reaching her hands out to this stubborn Dwarf and shaking him by the lapels. When she opened her eyes again, she spoke directly to Thorin.

“Gandalf saved me. He has cared for me and loved me for—” She stopped herself before she said, “my whole life.” Instead she said, “for many years. He is my father in everything but blood, and he regards me as his daughter.” She was struggling to hold it together, and her next words came a little more forceful than she intended: “And if that does not win me even the slightest bit of trust, please consider that I have known of your quest since before you even set foot in Rivendell. And I said nothing to Lord Elrond even though he too has sheltered me and cared for me and to him I owe as great a debt as any that I owe to Gandalf.”

Balin’s eyes seemed to soften slightly. Thorin remained stone-faced as he looked at her, and his unyielding stare drew her a few steps forward in desperation.

“Thorin,” she said pleadingly, all trace of propriety gone, “I just want to help.”

He searched her face, but she couldn’t tell what he was looking for. She did her best not to think about anything other than how much she wanted to help him, in hopes that he would see her intentions in her eyes.

After a moment he swept past her, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Balin followed his king, but the look in his eye as he walked out was significantly gentler than any other he’d given her that evening. The Dwarves gone, she glanced up at Bilbo to see a look of empathy clear on his face. He knew better than anyone how stubborn Dwarves could be.


	10. I am 300 years old

**Ten:**

_I am 300 years old._

_And I am BORED AS FUCK._

_There is always a period of adjustment as I settle back into life in Rivendell after going abroad. Similar to the way jetlag hits you when you travel across time-zones, going from the bustling, busy, loud world of Men and into the realm of Elves was almost a physical shock._

_I had spent the last seven months traveling the countryside of the West with my guitar, singing in taverns in exchange for room and board and whatever the patrons’ generosity would yeild. I always opened with “I am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger” and closed out with “Material Girl.” It usually put enough coin in my pocket to get me to the next town._

_Being back in Rivendell was like being stuck in that moment before fully awakening, when my eyes are open but I can still remember my dreams. It was as if I spent my whole day waiting for something to happen that would finally jolt me awake. Anyone would get a little stir-crazy after a while._

_But honestly, the main reason for my boredom was the fact that I was three HUNDRED years old._

_The first century was fun. I got to learn a bunch of new stuff and wear a ton of pretty dresses. During the second century I started to miss blue jeans. Not even trendy, skinny jeans, I would have given my left arm for a pair of tapered Mom jeans and white Keds. As this third century started to round out, I was beginning to really hate my life._

_What did I do to deserve this: To end up in my favorite story centuries too early? Was my immortality someone’s attempt to make it up to me? Did someone fuck up? Were they like, “oops I dropped her in too early, better make sure she lives to see Elijah Wood.” Why did I have to pay the price for that mistake? Just send me home!_

_I tried to keep busy._

_Healing Arts? Check._  
_Harp, lute, flute, guitar? Check._  
Archery? Check.  
_Knitting? Affirmative._  
_Painting? Yep._  
_Embroidery? Totes._  
_Cooking? Roger._  
_Weaving? Riding? Wine making? Pottery? Hair braiding?_

_Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes. If it was a thing, I had learned to do it. And I was still going out of my mind._

_THREE HUNDRED YEARS, YOU GUYS._

_I mean…I think. To tell you the truth I’m not sure. I’ve tried to keep track as best I can, having started a diary about 150 years ago, but it’s kind of tough to measure time in Rivendell. It’s not like all the Elves gather in Elrond’s living room every year to watch a ball drop on live TV. In Rivendell, time is measured in seasons and harvests and cups of coffee, in inches, in miles, in laughter and strife._

_Wait._

_Oh my God, what is that? Is that a song? That’s a song, isn’t it?_

_I’m starting to lose things I used to know. That’s where the journal comes in. I don’t want to lose things anymore, so I started to write things down. In that journal I wrote everything I could remember about my life before I came here. I wrote about my family and my friends and my daily life. I went into extremely mundane detail about what it was like to order a cup of coffee at the Student Union building. I wrote down everything I could remember about Bilbo and Erebor, and about Frodo and the ring._

_Because the way things were going, I would probably end up there eventually._

_I was sketching when I heard the knock at my door. I was in the middle of a particularly challenging bit of shadowing, so I ignored it at first._

_“My lady Elanor?” a muffled voice came from the other side. “Your father has arrived. He awaits you in the atrium.”_

_I huffed angrily. When had Gandalf become my father? I thought it had been a few centuries earlier, but I couldn’t quite remember. The rumors where there from the start, of course, especially since there was no precedent for a clearly magical being such as myself. At a certain point it became very clear that it would benefit me to live as Gandalf’s daughter, and he was clearly happy about the arrangement. Every time I called him “Ada” he beamed so brightly it was hard to stay bitter._

_Hard; not impossible._

_But here, I thought as I looked down at my drawing, was my true father. I had taken to sketching my family from the moment I started learning to draw. That way I would always remember them. My father’s face was more youthful than Gandalf’s, clean-shaven and a little more round in the cheeks. He was kind-eyed like Gandalf, but his hair was raven and cropped close to his head. I set the charcoal down, and obligingly went out to meet my Ada._

_Gandalf was not in the atrium as I had been told. He stood just outside it, waiting for me, and his face was grave._

_“Ada,” I said, but he didn’t smile as he usually did. “What’s wrong?”_

_“Would you care for a glass of wine, my dear?” he asked, gesturing to the small table beside him._

_I took it, because wine. But it didn’t lessen my suspicions that something was up. If anything it fueled them to see that he wanted me tipsy when he said what he had to say. We drank in silence for a moment before Gandalf cut to the chase._

_“A dragon destroyed the city of Dale yesterday,” he said. “A dragon named Smaug.”_

_I gulped a larger mouthful than I had intended. It had happened, then. Finally. Quickly I did some calculations in my head. That meant that it was year 2770 of the Third Age. Huh. I was 328. Not too far off. I patted myself on the back._

_Wait. Shit. Smaug. Fire and death. Much, much death. Death death death. Not the moment to be congratulating yourself on doing math in your head. Focus._

_“I must confess, my love,” he said, getting into the REAL fatherly endearments, “I never put much stock in your prophesy. You have extraordinary gifts, this is true, but the gift of Foresight has always been a strictly Elven feature. And even they tend not to deliver such… specific information.”_

_Oh, I had specific info alright. You want to know which member of Thorin’s company had the cutest butt? I could tell you. Of course, none of the information I had was ACTUALLY a result of being psychic. I had zero Foresight. Zero power._

_“It is clear to me now that the Valar have graced us with a powerful Seer,” Gandalf continued._

_I said nothing. I knew I had to explain the whole truth to Gandalf eventually, about the books and the movies and how I know what is going to happen. I had been waiting for the right time. Maybe this was it…_

_“I think it only logical that you should be trained in your gift,” he said, ushering me forward into the atrium._

_I was about to tell him there was no need for that. I was about to tell him that I was no Seer. I was about to, and then I saw who else sat in the atrium._

_Elrond was there. But so was a wizard clad in brilliant white robes, with long straight hair and a beard to match. And next to him sat the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on, with golden hair and a pristine, unlined face positioned in an unreadable expression._

_Saruman and Galadriel._

_The White Council._

_Fuuuuuuuuck._


	11. Another Dinner

**Eleven:**

It was entirely possible that he had offended the lady.

Thorin thought it more than likely, considering the way she had been avoiding him all day. Balin had spoken some sharp words to him last night, lecturing him about diplomacy and tact, but the lady Elanor’s hurt feelings were the last of Thorin’s worries. Now that he knew the importance of reaching the mountain before Durin’s Day, every moment spent in this Elven city was like agony. He wanted to get moving, and soon.

They had agreed to take this rare opportunity to replenish their supplies before taking to the road again, but the longer this re-supply took, the more uncomfortable he became. What was to stop the Elves from deliberately stalling their supplies in order to keep the company from reaching the Lonely Mountain in time? He had Gandalf’s assurance that their quest remained a secret, despite the Elf-Lord’s involvement, but that was of little comfort. Thorin distrusted Elves more than he trusted Wizards, but he did trust his companions to gather all necessary supplies as quickly and discreetly as possible. They would slip away at the first opportunity.

In the meantime, however, there was to be another dinner.

It was to be less formal, they were told, but Lord Elrond would be in attendance, and the presence of all the Dwarves was requested. How could Balin possibly lecture him on diplomacy when he had accepted this invitation without retching? The rest of the company was not so polite. When it had been gently suggested that they might wish to bathe before dinner, Nori and Gloin had stripped off their clothing and jumped into the nearest fountain, much to the horror of the Elves in the vicinity. The others had piled in after them, leaving a trail of discarded clothing on the ground, and all but Balin and Thorin were soon splashing in the water.

As a future king, most opportunities for rudeness that passed his way were not seized, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t sit back and enjoy the sight of his kin being truly offensive. 

Appropriately, Thorin looked up at that moment to see the lady Elanor approaching. At her side was the Hobbit, a sight that prompted a slight scowl. Master Baggins was clearly making himself at home here in the Elf-City. He spoke more often with and more highly of Elves than he had any of the company to which he had pledged his service. And the astonished way he gaped at the surrounding architecture made one think he hadn’t had the privilege of seeing parts of the naked wilderness that few mortals ever did. It was just as well they had stopped here; perhaps this respite would rid them of the Hobbit, who was clearly made of softer stuff than their quest required. Even now as his gaze fell upon the Dwarves in the fountain, the Hobbit looked positively scandalized.

The lady, to her credit, was visibly unshaken by the company’s bare bodies, though Thorin had no doubt that she would soon scuttle away like many of the she-Elves they had seen pass through here. Elanor’s eyes met his, to which he gave the customary nod. She turned her nose up at him, flipping her hair over her shoulder dismissively. 

Yes. He had definitely offended her.

He could tell not only because of her cold manner, but in her appearance as well. Tonight’s dinner was to be a casual affair, and yet she was dressed as if for her wedding day in a silk gown painted with flowers. Her sapphire was at her throat again, but it was drowning in hundreds of tiny white jewels strung together and draped many times around her shoulders. A circlet of gold lay upon her forehead and her hair was intricately braided down her back.

She was trying to impress him.

He hid his smirk behind his pipe as she made her way to the fountain, walking right up to the edge. Poor Ori saw her coming and ducked down until the water touched his chin, but the others were far from bashful, looking up to meet her as she approached.

“You know,” she told them, her tone pleasant, “those fountains are sacred to the Eldar. You do nothing to your benefit by using them in such a way.”

As expected, her warning was met with laughter. “Are they now, lass?” cried Oin, his ear trumpet poised in her direction. “Had we known that, we’d have used them for something other than a bath!”

The others joined in, howling with laughter and detailing exactly what they would have done to the fountain, had they known. The Hobbit looked like he might cry, but if this response upset Elanor, she did not show it. She was turning to walk away with a small smile on her face, when Kili stood and called after her.

“Care to join us, lady?”

Bofur and Nori hooted raucously. Dwalin thumped Kili on the shoulder. Only Fili looked the slightest bit apprehensive, his eyes flicking over to his uncle’s face. Thorin knew Kili’s vulgar, reckless streak was his fault; he had a tendency to spoil the younger of his heirs. Fili was the one who would succeed him, should they prevail, and it was he who looked to Thorin to teach him to be a king. That was why he seemed nervous now. No doubt he was wondering what cost would come from his brother propositioning a high-status ally of their host. Thorin gave him a nod to assuage his worry. He knew he should say something to admonish Kili’s disrespect, but he was too curious as to what the Lady’s reaction would be.

Elanor turned back to face Kili, not even batting an eye at his nakedness on display before her. She took a few steps forward, keeping her eyes on his face. 

“No thank you,” she said evenly. “I prefer the bath houses. The water there is…” she paused to let her gaze travel down his naked torso, stopping between his legs, “far less cold.”

Kili may have made a noise, but it was drowned out by the keening laughter now erupting around him on all sides. The young dwarf prince brought his hand to his chest as if struck, and fell backwards into the water with a cry.

“Help!” he called out to his kin. “She’s killed me!”

Elanor laughed and turned away, narrowly avoiding a splash as Bofur dunked Kili’s head under water. Thorin cast a glance to the side to see Balin chuckling to himself, and bit the inside of his lip to keep even a ghost of a smile from appearing on his face as Elanor approached. As she passed she gave him one small huff and a look that said, “They like me. So there.” She swept past him in a flutter of skirts and a call came that dinner was ready. Begrudgingly he called to his company to dress and made his way to the atrium, hoping that the more casual setting would mean a minimum of forced conversation. 

The atrium was set up more like a party than a dinner. There were tables and chairs, but appeared to be no set seating plan, all the food set up on a table towards the front so that the guests could help themselves. Thorin thought this was a mistake, confirmed the moment Bombur walked in and began filling his pockets with bread. 

However the food never seemed to grow scarce, with new plates brought out just before the last of each delicacy was consumed. Likewise was his wine goblet kept full by the multitude of cupbearers that wove deftly between the tables. There were more Elves in attendance than had been at their previous dinner, but they kept to themselves, occasionally throwing a nervous glance at one of the Dwarves. 

Thorin sipped at his wine, keeping watch over the company from a distance. In his scan of the room, he saw Elanor in the distance, laughing with two Elves. He had no way of knowing the cause of their laughter, but he had a sudden thought that she may be laughing at him, and felt heat climb into his cheeks that had nothing to do with the wine. The thought that she might be amusing herself on his behalf made him shake with rage, and he took a fierce bite out of the nearest piece of bread in order to calm himself.

“Enjoying the food, I see?” he heard behind him, and turned to see Gandalf with a glass in hand.

“Gandalf,” he said, “I did not know if I should expect to see you this evening.”

“Ah yes, I’m afraid Lord Elrond has kept me a virtual prisoner this past day,” the wizard apologized, gesturing to his side. Indeed, the Elf-Lord had just arrived, flanked by a pair of Elves haughty enough that they could only be his offspring. Lord Elrond inclined his head politely in Thorin’s direction, which he returned with a tip of his wine glass.

“We must make preparations to leave,” Thorin told Gandalf, lowering his voice slightly.

The wizard pretended not to hear, placing a hand on Thorin’s shoulder in a friendly gesture that was really designed to steer him away from the corner he had hidden himself in. 

“Ah! How are you this evening, my dear?”

Thorin did not need to look up to know who could elicit that kind of tone from Gandalf. A flutter of silk skirt in his peripheral vision confirmed his suspicions long before he looked up into Lady Elanor’s face.

“Very well, Ada. And yourself?” she answered, pointedly ignoring Thorin. He took another sip of wine.

“Very well indeed, in fact, Thorin and I were just discussing our company’s preparations to depart.”

Thorin thought “discussing” was a bit of a strong word, given that Gandalf had not even grunted in reply before his daughter had appeared. He also objected to the Wizard’s use of the phrase “our company,” but decided it was not worth mentioning. Instead he took yet another sip of wine.

“Durin’s Day is fast approaching,” he said as much to Gandalf and as little to Elanor as he could manage. “The sooner we are back on the road, the better.”

“Yes, it is quite fortunate you were able to decipher that map.”

Ah. The wizard’s motivations for the conversation were suddenly unable to miss. Elanor was fishing for an apology. No doubt she had pressed her “father” into trapping her prey into this inescapable social interaction. He would not give her the satisfaction.

“Indeed.”

Thorin heard Gandalf’s soft, impatient tongue-click. Elanor gave a small laugh. It was hard to say which condescending reaction annoyed him more. 

“Thorin.” Gandalf’s voice was firm, and Thorin pulled his eyes away from the rim of his wine glass to look into the wizard’s face. “I would like Elanor to give you a reading before we continue on to the mountain.”

Thorin’s warning of, “Gandalf,” came at the exact same moment Elanor let out an exasperated, “Ada…” and for the moment they spoke at the same time.

“I take no stock in fortune-telling—”

“Ada, you know I am not fully trained yet—”

“—perhaps the Elves believe she can see the future—”

“—it is not a good idea—”

“Nonsense!” Gandalf cried impatiently. “Your stubbornness will be your downfall, Thorin Oakenshield, have you not seen enough to know that her powers are true? And you…” He rounded on his daughter, and Thorin was satisfied to see her looking cowed. “As pig-headed as a Dwarf, perhaps I should have let one of them raise you! You have been trained by the finest Seer in Middle Earth. I have no doubt that anything you have to tell us about our quest will be of benefit to us.”

Thorin was unsure whether or not to be insulted at Gandalf’s comparing Elanor to a Dwarf, but he was enjoying the look on the lady’s face too much to care.

“I cannot tell you what to do,” the wizard continued to Thorin, more gently. “But I urge you to consider a reading. I truly believe it will help us.”

For once, Elanor had nothing to say. She stared down at the hem of her dress, no doubt embarrassed from her father’s outburst. Thorin took another sip of his wine and looked out onto the room. The bright faces of his kin filled his vision as they ate and drank and laughed. Since the quest began they had taken small moments of respite here and there, but one could never truly relax out in the wild like they could in a well-protected city.

Here they looked fully rejuvenated. They had translated the map, and would soon have a new stock of stores for the rest of their journey. About stopping here to rest, it appeared Gandalf had been right. Perhaps he would be right about this… reading as well. 

“I will think on it,” he told the wizard. It was not a yes, but Gandalf seemed to react as if it was, and Thorin tried not to bristle. 

Elanor looked up from the floor and peered at her father through her eyelashes, looking almost demure. 

“Do you really believe the Lady Galadriel to be the finest Seer in Middle Earth?” Elanor asked Gandalf.

“Indeed,” the wizard replied. “I will tell her so, should our paths cross again.”

The conversation had moved on, and Thorin thought this a good opportunity to take his leave, turning away as he heard Elanor’s reply.

“You’ll get your chance, Ada. Sooner than you think.”

He looked back at that to see Elanor retreating in a flurry of silk, leaving Gandalf in her wake, and indiscernible look on his face. 

“Oh dear,” muttered the wizard.


	12. I am 328 years old...

**Twelve:**

_I am 328 years old._

_And I am in deep shit._

_“You have nothing to fear, my child,” said Saruman._

_Perhaps if I hadn’t been looking into the face of Sauron’s future right-hand-man, the idea of being called a child at over 300 years old would have offended me, but I was a little too frightened to be hurt. Of course, to Saruman, I suppose I really WAS a child._

_“How did you know of the dragon?” he asked me again. “Did it come to you in a dream? A sudden vision in your waking hours? Perhaps you saw it in the flames of your brazier?”_

_Um…yeah, let’s go with one of those. I mean… none of these options seemed particularly damning. I could easily have said yes to any of them, and neither he nor Galadriel nor Gandalf had any reason to know it wasn’t the truth. Probably._

_But I couldn’t speak._

_It was like that dream, when you’re in a play but you don’t know the lines. I just stared numbly at the face of Saruman the White, waiting for his fingers to curl around my throat and his blade to slip between my ribs. But he was looking at me with kind, grandfatherly eyes, and speaking to me as if trying to coax a bird to land on his hand._

_I was still terrified._

_“Elanor?” It was a much more familiar voice, and I turned to see Gandalf, leaning over the table, his hand placed comfortingly on my arm, making little circles with his fingers that I was too numb to feel. “You are not in trouble, my dear. We merely wish to know how you knew of this event.”_

_His face seemed to snap me out of it. I slid my other hand across my body and into his, and he held on tightly. I took a breath and decided that “saw it in a dream” was probably my best option._

_I opened my mouth to speak, and I heard her call my name._

_“Jane.”_

_My breath left me._

_It was as if a door had been opened to outer space, and all of the oxygen was sucked from the room. All of a sudden I could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing but the cold spreading from the top of my head to my toes. Ice flowed through my veins and sand filled my mouth. I could no longer feel the warmth of Gandalf’s hand in mine, could barely register the feeling of sitting in this chair, my body suddenly weightless._

_I turned to her._

_Galadriel had barely moved, still sitting with her back to the window, the fading light of dusk enveloping her like a cloak of fire, glinting off her hair like a crown. She looked at me and in the instant that our eyes met I felt like she knew me. Like she had been there at my birth, held me as a baby and watched all the milestones of my life with those kind wise eyes._

_Jane._

_That had been my name. The name my mother had given me before I’d come here. Before Gandalf had called me Elanor and found me my home in Bree. After a moment I realized she hadn’t said it aloud; she had spoken it inside my head and I responded to it as if I still remembered who I was._

_I had never actually told Gandalf my real name._

_I had tried, but on that first day I had done almost nothing but cry. Every time I’d attempted to speak to him, the words just… got away from me. Scared, tired and in shock, I had so desperately wanted to tell him everything that when I did finally regain my ability to verbalize, the words had tumbled out of my mouth too fast, too frantic and too confusing for him to grasp any of it. I had tried to tell him everything. I had tried to tell him that I had seen him on a movie screen. I had tried to tell him what movies were; that images were captured on film and projected onto screens, broadcast across oceans, bounced off of satellites. I had tried to tell him what satellites were, what airplanes were, what cell phones were._

_And then I had just… stopped._

_He had no doubt thought I was hysterical, and I’m sure he barely listened to anything I’d had to say those first few days. He had gleaned enough to know that I was lost, that I was confused, and that I was alone. He had put some hot soup in me and watched over me while I collapsed of exhaustion, and when I woke up he was calling me Elanor._

_I remember the moment he named me. He told me of the beautiful flowers that grew far away, and explained that my great beauty deserved an equally striking name. Suddenly the panic that had filled my body and paralyzed my vocal chords had seemed to melt away slightly. Jane, after all, was not striking. Jane was not memorable. Jane was lost. Jane was stupid. Jane was away from home. Jane could never hope to explain the world she came from or the calamity that would soon befall everyone on this plane of existence. But maybe Elanor could. Maybe Elanor wouldn’t be lost and alone. Maybe Elanor belonged here. Maybe if I was to survive, Jane would have to be left behind in the woods and Elanor would have to emerge._

_I had fallen into this world like a baby bird from a nest: helpless, hopeless and half-blind. Gandalf had scooped me up and rescued me. He had given me clothes. He had given me shelter. He had given me a name. He had given me an identity and in doing so, he took from me the person I was before I came here. I had no use for Jane and nothing left of her but her memories. I had the songs she heard on the radio, the jokes she told around the table with her brothers. And I had the secret of her knowledge of what was to come._

_I had given up my name. It had been easy to do; like shedding a coat when the clouds part and the sunlight warms you. I had never regretted leaving Jane behind, but I had clutched my secret to my breast like a raft in a churning sea. Every moment from the day Gandalf had named me had been a struggle to learn the ways of my new home, but as long as I had my secret I could pretend I belonged here. I could pretend there was a reason I had been stranded in this fantasy world. It was all I had, and I had not wanted to let it go._

_Now, sitting in the soft, violet light of the failing sun, staring into Galadriel’s eyes, I realized how little I truly needed Jane anymore. I had looked up out of habit, but even as I reflexively responded, there was an emptiness that followed. Jane was a character that I had played years ago; a persona I’d adopted in a game I used to play, like the lyric to a song I only half remember, or a nickname I’d been given as a child and since outgrown._

_Jane was an unremarkable liberal arts major who quelled at the thought of sharing a table with the White Council. Elanor was a Seer and Elanor belonged here. Jane had needed her secret, but Elanor did not._

_It was time to tell the truth._


	13. Music-Making

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She invented the Elvish Guitar, now she gets to use it!

**Thirteen:**

Every time Bilbo thought of leaving Rivendell and setting out again into the unforgiving wilderness, he felt a physical ache of dread down to his core. As the Elvish dinner party wound down, he was almost unable to enjoy the calm of their respite out of anxiety that he must soon leave it. There would be no more plates of Elvish delicacies and pitchers of wine in his future once the Company was back on the road.

More than once, the thought that he might stay had crossed his mind. But he pushed that thought away. He had made a promise and signed a contract, and what was a Hobbit if his word was worthless?

But if honor was not a good enough reason for him to continue this quest, he would settle for spite, remembering angrily those bags of coin exchanged when he had first run after the Company. He had not been paying much attention at the time, but now he wished he had better noticed who exactly had bet against him.

At times it seemed like they were all betting against him. And not even in a particularly malicious way. Their arrival in Rivendell had been a perfect example. When Elrond and his soldiers had rounded upon them on horseback, he had been thrust into the middle of the group, protected like a child. Even Ori had stood fast against the onslaught of Elves, and no one thought to shield him as he faced down an Elvish blade with nothing but a slingshot. 

He supposed he should be thankful that they cared enough for him to shield him in the first place, given the way they regarded nearly every other race they’d come across. Their hostility towards the Elves persisted despite every hospitality of Lord Elrond’s, and their callous disregard for the Lady Elanor raged unchecked even in the face of the fact that she was Gandalf’s daughter!

It made him overly proud of every small bit of approval shown to him by any of the Dwarves. Every pat on the back or joke told in his direction seemed like an impossible affirmation, and lately they had been coming from every member of the company.

Except one. 

Bilbo looked up across the piece of cheese in his hand to see Thorin seated at a table with Dwalin and Balin. Their leader had made no secret of his doubt in Bilbo’s abilities, and he knew he would not be here if not for Gandalf. He’d been more or less ignored since their arrival in Rivendell, but Thorin had not been too actively hostile toward him in a few days.

That was progress, at least.

The sun was setting and fires were being lit, and the dinner was taking on a different energy. Lord Elrond had retired and Gandalf was saying his good nights, and the only Elves that remained were the musicians and the few still serving wine.

As the light faded and the Elvish wine took effect, Bilbo found himself getting sleepy. The light, willowy sounds of the harp and flute were not helping matters, and he was about to discreetly excuse himself when the music suddenly changed. The soft harp sounds stopped abruptly. In its place was what sounded like a lute… but the sound was sharper, like dishes crashing together.

The first sound of it was shocking, but once he processed the noise, he found that it was incredibly pleasant. He followed the source of the sound to see Elanor sitting among the musicians. She was holding the instrument that made the sound. It had strings like a lute, but instead of plucking them individually, she crashed her hand against all of them at once. It should have made a chaotic scream of sound, but each note complimented each other perfectly, and when she brought her hand down again the instrument issued an entirely new set of sounds.

The music she played was fast and loud, and even a few of the Dwarves were looking on with interest. Bilbo could see Bofur tapping his chair along with the beat.

Across the room, Gandalf grinned. The wizard had been on his way out when Elanor had taken up her instrument, but he stayed through two songs before finally walking out.

“When I say that something, I want to hold you hand,” Elanor was singing, her voice pleasant. 

At least one of the Elves sitting with her seemed familiar with the song, and was following along on the flute. When she was finished, Dori threw up his hands and cried out for another. She grinned at him and launched into a slow song about a blackbird. 

Bilbo looked across the room happily, seeing almost all of the Dwarves listening to her intently. She played another after, a faster song that had them clapping. Bofur and Bifur stood up to dance a jig, and Kili and Fili began throwing scraps of food at them, as they had done on their first day here. Bilbo looked over at Elanor and smiled, happy they weren’t throwing food at her, though he might consider it a compliment if they did. He clapped along as well, placing his wine goblet on the nearest table to do so.

When he turned to pick it up again, he noticed Thorin in the corner. Even Dwalin (who made no secret of his distaste and distrust for everyone and everything in Rivendell) was tapping his feet along with the music, but Thorin had a dark look on his face, watching Elanor in a way that seemed more predatory than anything else. 

Bilbo tried to understand. Thorin was their leader, after all, and was responsible for all of their lives. It was good of him to be so careful. Bilbo didn’t think there was anything overtly threatening about Lady Elanor, but he realized that he didn’t know the lady all that well. He had spoken to her a few times and found her completely pleasant and genuine, and she had a ringing endorsement from Gandalf. Could she really be all that bad?

The last song Elanor played was high-energy and had more than half of the company of their feet. It was from the point of view of a man, which Bilbo thought was a bit strange, but Elanor didn’t blush at all while singing. In fact she laughed in between verses as Bombur swung Ori around so hard that he fell into a bench.

When the song ended, the Elf on the flute laid her instrument down and announced her intention to retire, and the party began to disperse. Oin, Gloin and Balin made their way down to their camp. Bomber and Bifur stayed behind to pick at a few more scraps of food. Dwalin had made his way back to his king at some point during the last few songs, and Fili and Kili were busy brushing the dust off of Ori’s jacket. Bofur was asking Elanor about her lute, and so Bilbo thought this was the perfect opportunity to bring her a glass of wine before the last of it returned to the kitchens.

“Thank you, Bilbo,” she said warmly, accepting the glass.

“May I ask…” he began somewhat clumsily. There had been a word in one of her songs that he had never come across in any of his readings. “What are sneaks?”

Elanor laughed into her wine, bringing a hand up to her mouth lest she dribble it past her lips. “Oh…that’s just a word my people use for a certain kind of shoe. They make your steps very quiet so we call them ‘sneakers’ or ‘sneaks.’”

It was the first time she had ever referenced “her people,” and Bilbo didn’t fail to notice the flush in her cheeks and the loose grip she held on her wine glass.

“Is it true that you are Gandalf’s daughter?” asked Ori.

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up. It seemed Elrond’s wine was loosening all sorts of tongues tonight. Fili and Kili stopped mid-argument at Ori’s question. They did not look particularly surprised, but did look very interested in the answer. Thorin must have told them about last night’s encounter. Bilbo cast a glance up at Thorin, who was staring down at the remnants of his plate. Dwalin had his back turned to the group, but Bilbo knew that both of them were listening intently.

Elanor regarded Ori calmly. “It is true that I love Gandalf like a father, and he loves me like a daughter.”

It was a very diplomatic answer, Bilbo noted. “But you do have people, yes?” he asked. “You said a moment ago… forgive me if it’s painful to speak of.”

She had looked down, her eyes shut, folding her hands over the face of the strange lute in her lap. “No, it’s not painful. Not anymore. It’s just…complicated.” She stood and drew a large piece of cloth out from under the bench and began to wrap her instrument in it. “My home is very far away, beyond the sea. I am the only one of my kind to ever come to this country.”

“How far a journey is it from here?” asked Fili, stepping forward. “On horseback to the shore, for instance, and then across the sea?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” asked Kili, slightly more incredulous than his brother. “How did you come to be here?”

“I don’t know that either.” Elanor sat back on the bench and folded her hands in her lap, and Bilbo suddenly felt like he was back in the Shire as a young Hobbit, with the Wandering Wizard before him about to tell him a story. “I was taken,” she said, “many years ago.” 

“For you powers?” asked Ori. “They say you read fortunes.” 

The assembled Dwarves chuckled, and Bilbo noted that a disbelief in Foresight might be genetic. Elanor, it seemed, had enough of being scoffed at, because she seemed to take this cue to go, standing up and downing the rest of her wine in one gulp.

“I think I shall retire,” she said.

“Oh not yet, great Lady,” called Kili, reaching out for her hand. “Tell me my fortune!”

Fili swatted his brother’s arm away, but Elanor laughed good-naturedly. “Keep those hands to yourself, Master Kili, or you will not keep the promise you made to your mother when she gave you that token you carry.”

Kili’s mouth fell open as Elanor danced out of reach and disappeared down a great hallway. Fili was looking after her in astonishment as well, though Bilbo was not sure why, until the brothers turned to each other in amazement. 

“How did she know?” Kili was hissing. Fili laughed and clapped his brother on the chest as they, Ori and Bofur made their way down to camp, laughing. Bilbo found himself smiling as well, though he wasn’t exactly sure what was so funny. On impulse he looked up at Thorin to see if the mirth was shared, but Thorin was staring after Elanor, unblinking. Dwalin was speaking in his ear, and it looked as though he was very passionate about what he was saying. It was easy to speculate on what might be being said. Dwalin had already demonstrated a superstitious dislike of Foresight and anything magical, and he was dubious of Elanor. 

What worried Bilbo the most, however, was that Thorin appeared to be nodding in agreement.


	14. I am still 328 years old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long, my real life got kind of hectic, but for the best reasons ever. 
> 
> To make up for the delay, I've got two chapters for you this update, hope you like them!

**Fourteen:**

_I am still 328 years old._

_But I feel like I’ve aged another hundred years in the last few minutes._

_And fifty more during the incredibly long pause that stretched on after I told them._

_I didn’t tell them EVERYTHING. I thought about it, and decided that I couldn’t tell them any details._

_I may not remember my mother’s name, but I remember that Halloween episode of the Simpsons where Homer went back in time. And I knew that if I so much as crushed a bug on my sleeve, I could change the future. And though talking to Saruman about the fate of Middle Earth felt as intimidating as a conversation with Martin Scorcese about my favorite movies, I had to stay strong. I couldn’t tell them everything I knew, or I would risk completely changing the story. And if I changed the story, Frodo might never destroy the Ring._

_Gandalf hadn’t paid attention when I told him that Smaug would destroy Dale. Why would he? Dale wasn’t even a city when I first arrived in Middle Earth. But if he had believed me, and if somehow the destruction of Erebor could have been avoided, hundreds of lives would have been saved. Thorin Oakenshield would not have been exiled._

_But Bilbo would never embark on a quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. He would never steal the One Ring from Gollum, and it would never pass on to Frodo, who would eventually destroy it._

_Sauron was rising, and I didn’t believe there was anything anyone could (or would, I amended with a glance at Saruman) do about it now. If he rose and the Ring was still with Gollum, he would reclaim it with hardly a fight._

_The ring HAD to go to Frodo. He was the only living person in Middle Earth with the strength to carry the ring to Mount Doom._

_So whatever I did, I had to make sure that happened._

_So if I was going to change anything, I had to make sure it didn’t spiral out and affect Frodo getting the Ring. Telling the White Council that Sauron would rise again and attempt to reclaim the One Ring of power would DEFINITELY put events in motion that would significantly change the story. So I had to keep my mouth shut._

_However, judging by the very long pause I was currently sweating through, keeping my mouth shut was not the outcome the Wizards and Elves in front of me were hoping for._

_“I do not understand,” Gandalf was saying. “Why was this a story told in your world? What happens that is of such significance?”_

_“Mithrandir,” came the cool voice of Galadriel. Her hand was up, but I hadn’t seen her move. “She cannot tell you.”_

_I looked over at Galadriel. Had she seen into my mind and known my fears? She looked back into my face, and it was the most reassuring look I have ever experienced._

_“She is here to play a part in a great struggle,” Galadriel continued. “A struggle so great it is told in legend in her world. But if she tells us anything about it, she will change the course of history.”_

_“Is that not why the Valar have sent her to us?” asked Saruman. “What use is knowing the future if not to change it?”_

_“Perhaps it is,” Galadriel agreed. “I think we must trust her to know when to make those changes.”_

_It is impossible for me to describe the swell of pride I felt at these words. It was the furthest I had ever felt from the lost little girl crying in the meadow by the Shire. I felt competent. I felt powerful. I lifted my chin and looked straight into Saurman’s eyes for the first time since entering the room._

_Gandalf was nodding. Elrond too looked as though this was acceptable to him. Saruman weighed it for a long moment, and I wondered whether he was actually considering it, or if he just wanted to appear as if he was._

_“Agreed,” he said finally. “She shall stay here for the time being—”_

_“No.”_

_The word came crashing out of my mouth before I could hope to stop it. Whatever newfound confidence Galadriel’s endorsement had given me, it apparently also made me reckless enough to challenge the will of the most powerful Istari in Middle Earth. It was most likely shock that someone would dare interrupt him that caused Saruman to pause as he stared incredulously back down at me._

_I would not stay in Rivendell another minute. I needed to be where Galadriel was. I looked to her, and knew she could read the intention in my heart._

_She nodded slightly, and addressed the Council. “I will take her to Lothlorien, there she shall learn. Perhaps we will see if a true gift lies inside her yet.”_


	15. A Late Night Visit

**Fifteen:**

 

Elanor longed to go to bed, but her ridiculous braids were taking almost as long to be undone as they had to be plaited in the first place.

She had already shed her dress and peeled her jewels off one by one like a molting bird’s feathers. She now sat on her balcony in a light, sleeveless nightgown with her Dwarvish sapphire still at her throat, pulling a comb through her reluctant hair.

She’d bid the Dwarves good night and come back to her room. The moment the door had shut behind her, regret had swept over her like a wave. It was as if she’d suddenly sobered up after a drunken night of embarrassment. She SANG. 

Far back in her memories, Elanor recalled the last time she had felt like this. It was at a party as well, full of older, more accomplished people—older students at her school. She’d watched them all drinking and laughing together and felt as if she were a piece of unwanted furniture shoved into a corner. She’d seen the easy way they joked together and attempted to elbow her way into their conversations. She’d watched them try to out-drink each other and tried her hand only to end up sick in the bushes a few hours later. And just like tonight she had arrived back home at the end of the night, mortified at how she’d behaved. 

She’d wanted to impress the Dwarves tonight. She’d wanted to intimidate them. She’d wanted to glide past them with her nose in the air and feel each of their eyes follow her across the room.

Or at least his.

It was petty, she knew, but the more dismissive Thorin became, the more determined she was that she would not be ignored. That was what had her digging through her closet for a dress she hadn’t worn in over a century. It was beautiful but very heavy and always made her legs sweat, which was why she’d left it behind when she went to Lothlorien. The jewelry she’d left here was equally as impractical, but she’d piled on the jewels, braided her hair for two hours before dinner, lined her eyes with kohl and powdered her face, all to draw a reaction from the taciturn Dwarf King.

And it hadn’t even WORKED.

Granted, Kili seemed to find her attractive, but his lack of standards didn’t exactly inspire confidence. 

Sighing, she moved to the cabinet along the far wall of her sitting room and opened it to find an assortment of Elvish wines and spirits, along with some non-perishable food items. She was pleased to see that Elrond’s servants had a long memory; even though she hadn’t lived here full-time for over a century, each time she came back her rooms were stocked with all her favorites. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat at her table sullenly.

Thorin and his company would leave soon, she knew, and she was no closer to winning his trust. Gandalf had really thrown a wrench in things when he had suggested she read Thorin’s future. She’d planned to gain the Dwarven King’s trust first and then slowly reveal her gift and knowledge to him over time, not just blurt it out gracelessly. The more the Wizard insisted that Elanor read Thorin’s future, the more he would resist. He was stubborn, and the only way to get him to agree to it would be to make him think it was his idea in the first place. It would require careful planning and a bit more finesse than Gandalf possessed. 

There was a pounding at her door. 

Elanor jumped. It was very late; out her open balcony doors she could see few lamps or fires still lit. Most of Imladris was sleeping. 

The pounding came again, urgent and loud enough to wake the whole city, and Elanor flung open the door to find Thorin on the other side. 

“Apologies for waking you, my Lady,” his voice thundered in the empty hallway. His “apology” was hollow and sarcastic, and if the flickering candlelight told the truth, his face was red with drink.

“I was awake,” she whispered, moving aside and motioning him in, lest he wake the whole hall. “Come in, Master Oakenshield.”

Suddenly Thorin was frozen in the doorway, a complete departure from his bold greeting. He looked nonplussed as he shifted his weight awkwardly. “I—” he stammered, trying hard to avoid looking at her. “I will give you a moment.”

Elanor’s confusion must have been noticeable even without looking at her expression, because he clarified. “A moment to make yourself decent.”

She looked down at herself and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at his embarrassment. By Elven standards, her nightdress was not indecent, but it was a very lightweight, semi-sheer fabric that clung to her skin and it was cut low between her breasts. She had seen today at the fountains that modesty was not a chief concern of Dwarves, but he seemed to think she had reason to be bashful, so she stepped inside and threw on a robe. Holding it closed around her torso, she motioned him inside again, and he stepped forward.

Once the door shut behind him, he seemed to struggle to regain the righteous anger that had brought him so speedily to her door, and he walked a few paces in a circle, huffing in irritation. He looked like an actor trying to summon an emotion from nowhere.

Finally he turned to her. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Elanor blinked in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand…”

“Taken as a child from a land across the sea,” he spat. “That is the story you told my company tonight. That is what Elrond told me when I asked him where you came from. That is what Gandalf said, that is what Lindir said, and that is what every Elf has said when asked how you came to be here. Taken as a child from a land across the sea.”

He took a step forward, his eyes dark and Elanor noticed that he had come to her room in the dead of night fully armed. His hand was wrapped around the hilt of Orcrist, and she stared in wonder. Would he actually hurt her? Or was he bluffing? The slow, dangerous steps he was taking towards her seemed to indicate that he was bluffing. He had seen her jump into fighting stance when Dwalin had threatened her, and knew she was trained. If he had truly anticipated a fight, he would keep his distance until the first strike, he would not make his advance so obvious. 

It seemed that as she had tried to intimidate him earlier in the evening, so too was he attempting to intimidate her. When he stepped no more than three paces from her she began to move back, playing along as he backed her up into the fainting couch in the center of the room. When the backs of her legs hit the couch she flopped down onto it and he stopped in front of her.

“Taken as a child from a land across the sea,” he said again, his face slightly above hers now she was on the couch. “It is a lie. A well-rehearsed lie.”

She looked up at him. He thought he had caught her. He thought he had frightened her, backed her into a corner and blocked her escape. He thought now she would unravel, confess the nefarious purpose he was sure she had, beg his forgiveness and promise never to lie again.

He was wrong.

“It is,” she said calmly and evenly, never taking her eyes off his.

He didn’t waver, though this clearly wasn’t the attitude he was hoping to see in her confession. “Who are you?”

“I’ll show you.” 

He stepped back and allowed himself to be led through another door into her bedroom. When he realized where he was, she saw embarrassment creep back across his face for a moment before he quashed it. He waited in the doorway while she lit the lamps, bathing the room in warm, flickering light.

“Here,” she said, beckoning him to a desk by the window, covered in papers. He approached and picked one up, looking at the face drawn on it in charcoal. “My father,” she said softly. “My real father. He sang, too. He taught me music when I was very young.” She reached up onto her shelf and brought down one of her heavy sketchbooks, flipping through it. “This was my mother. She was very tall. Everyone said I’d grow up to look just like her, but I didn’t get her height.”

Thorin looked on in silence as she got another sketchbook from the shelf. This one was from nearly fifty years before the one that currently lay open on the desk, but it didn’t matter; they were all filled with drawings of the same things.

“I had three brothers,” she said, coming to a sketch of their faces. “All older, and all with broken noses, it took me years to get their profiles right.” She pointed to the oldest of her brothers in the center of the page. “My oldest brother wanted to be a wrestler. He would practice on the other two, throwing them around and pinning them. I used to beg them to show me how to wrestle, but they wouldn’t touch me. I was the baby of the family and they only girl, so they thought I was too fragile.”

She flipped the pages until she found her father’s face again, noting out of the corner of her eye that Thorin was no longer looking at the sketches, but at her.

“I try to remember them,” she said, her voice soft. “I draw them every chance I get. But now when I close my eyes, I can’t see my father’s face anymore. All I see are my drawings, and they’ve always been adequate at best. Every year the things I put down on the paper become less and less what they really were. I can feel my old life slipping further away every day, Thorin.”

If he was offended at her use of his proper name, he did not show it. He remained silent, his hands relaxed and at his sides, Orcrist no longer at the ready.

“I want to go home.”

It was the first time she had said the words to another person. They had escaped her mouth before, alone in her room in the midst of tears as she mourned her other life, but she had been very careful to keep that thought to herself. To give voice to it felt like a betrayal of Gandalf, of Elrond and Galadriel, and anyone else who had tried to make a home for her in this world. But in almost 500 years, neither Rivendell nor Lothlorien nor any other place in Middle Earth had been “home” to her. Her home was somewhere else.

“I would reclaim it if I could,” she told him sincerely. “I would ride day and night until I reached it. I would lay siege to any enemy that stood in my way. But I can’t. My home is not across the sea, Thorin. It is gone. I will never go back, because it doesn’t exist. I lost it, and it’s only a matter of time before I lose my memories too.”

She snapped the sketchbook closed and began replacing her drawings. Thorin backed away, out of her field of vision. It was only when he’d gone that her tears began to fall, her shoulders shaking as she tried to keep her sobs quiet, her hand clamped across her mouth. After a moment she took a long, steadying breath and turned to find that Thorin hadn’t left. He was standing in the doorway with her glass of wine, and had poured one for himself. She accepted the drink gratefully, and they sipped in silence for a moment.

“Do you truly see the future?” he asked.

“I do.” It was not a lie.

“Oin is fond of divination,” he said. “Tea leaves, bird signs, that sort of nonsense.”

“But you’ve never put much stock in such things?”

“I believe what I see.”

There was a meaning in his words beyond qualifying his skepticism. For the first time Elanor felt as if she had the Dwarf King’s trust. In that instant she felt guilty for trying to manipulate him. It seemed such tricks were not necessary; all she had to do was show him that she knew how it felt to have her home taken from her.

There was camaraderie in despair, she’d always found. A fellowship in heartbreak, when one found someone who had suffered as they had. How bittersweet it was that this should be their bridge to one another, when neither of them would wish this emptiness on their enemy. 

Elanor was just about to break the silence when there came another, even louder pounding at her door.

“Jesus!” she exclaimed in shock, dribbling wine down her chin. She raced from the bedroom to open the door, her priority to stop the noise before it woke anyone. She didn’t think to worry about the strange Dwarf in her bedroom in the middle of the night, but Thorin had sense enough to duck out of sight.

In an even stranger turn of events, she opened the door to find Dwalin standing uncomfortably in the hallway.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady,” he sneered, looking no more sorry than Thorin had been when he’d first arrived. “I—”

The fierce Dwarf general silenced himself abruptly, peering behind Elanor. She glanced back. Thorin, having heard Dwalin’s voice, had emerged from the bedroom. Dwalin’s jaw went slack for a moment, and a look briefly crossed his face that spoke of rage mingled with disgust.

Elanor realized what he saw: Thorin walking out of her bedroom and her, hair a mess, lips smeared with wine, clutching her robe around her body. She flushed with embarrassment, but Dwalin’s face was suddenly blank again.

“Thorin,” he said, “I was looking for you.”

Thorin nodded, placing his half-empty wine goblet on her table with dignity. Of course, HE looked as un-rumpled and stately as ever, whereas she looked like a milkmaid taken behind the barn. This was how rumors got started.

As Thorin made to exit he turned back to her. “If you truly believe that it will help,” he said, “you may read my future tomorrow.”

Maybe it was because of the newfound understanding between them, or the awkward situation Dwalin had caught them in, or maybe it was because Elanor understood the honor that Thorin did her in granting her request, but she bowed to him as he left her room. Like the curtsy she had greeted him with when he’d arrived in Rivendell, she dipped low with all formality, and did not rise until he slipped out of the room. But even in a formal curtsy, she could not resist a peek up at him.

His eyes had softened at her bow, and she saw a longing in them that was no doubt stirred by memories of formal meetings in the royal halls of Erebor. For a moment it looked as if he was about to touch her shoulder, the customary signal to rise in the presence of the king.

But he had pulled his hand back and swept out the door instead, leaving only Dwalin, glaring at her with a fiery hatred in his eyes that made her shudder long after the door was locked behind him.


	16. I am 3,145 years old

**Sixteen:**

_I am 3,145 years old._

_And I am standing on the bow of a ship. I have long blonde hair that floats around my face in the breeze coming off the water as we dock. I am eager to step onto dry land again and set foot on the shores of Beleriand, though I know it is still several days journey to Doriath._

_There is a party of Elves on the shore to meet me, to escort me to Thingol’s realm, and this is when I see him for the first time._

_His hair is white and shining in the sunlight. He and his horse are caparisoned in silver armor with blue velvet accents. He is beautiful as all of our race are, but there is something about him that strikes me to the bone. His eyes meet mine and I know in that moment that I will stay with him until the end of my days._

_When I make my way down to land he slips off his horse and approaches me, and when he speaks his voice is as musical as I imagined._

_“My lady Galadriel,” he says to me. “I am Celeborn, son of Thingol, come to escort you to my father’s house.”_

_I let him lead me to my horse, and I am his._

_And then I realized exactly what I was seeing._

_With a shiver that rolled through me like a heart attack, I snatched my hands away from Galadriel’s, breaking eye contact as the vision faded out of my head. Gasping for breath, I put my hand over my rapidly pounding heart and tried to collect myself._

_Okay. I am back. I am no longer Galadriel; I am Elanor. I am 336 years old._

_And I am PSYCHIC._

_“Did you see it?” Galadriel asked me. She looked super calm, considering I was just inside her head for a few minutes._

_“Yes,” I gasped. “What was that?”_

_She smiled. “It was a memory. When I first met Celeborn.”_

_“It was your actual memory?” I asked her, astonished. “Did you put it into my head?”_

_She shook her head. “You did it yourself.”_

_I sat back in shock. It had been almost ten years since I had come to Lothlorien. I had spent almost the entirety of that time studying Elven magic with Galadriel, but I had never expected to actually be able to DO much. I’d assumed that I never would but what I had just experienced was unmistakable. I had BEEN Galadriel, seeing the memory through her eyes of a day she had lived thousands of years before._

_All my other knowledge had come from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. But I remembered the movies better than the books, I didn’t understand The Simarilion and I’d blown through The Unfinished Tales so fast I barely recalled any of them. I had no idea what Galadriel’s early life had been like. There was NO way I could possibly have known what she’d felt like the first time she saw her Elven husband._

_This had been a true vision. A vision of the past, but a vision nonetheless! I had actually done it! I had been fully prepared to fake it, but now it seemed like I might not have to. Every day it seemed my power was growing, and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. If the Valar had seen fit to give me eternal life and the ability to heal, why should they not give me actual psychic powers? I smiled broadly at Galadriel, and she returned it with a smirk of her own. There was something slightly smug about her facial expression._

_“Did you know?” I asked her. “Did you know I had real power?”_

_I loved the fact that I could speak a little more candidly to Galadriel about my situation. She never told me exactly how much she knew, and I never went into detail either, but I always felt like she knew more than she was saying about me. I never felt the need to lie to her completely._

_“Your strength grows,” she told me. “I believe if you continue to train, you will be able to do anything you attempt, be it Foresight or any other power in Middle Earth.”_

_What the hell did that mean? Could I learn to fly if I really set my mind to it? It was just like her to answer my question with an inane riddle. Classic Galadriel._

_I nodded. It was the best way to pretend I understood her._

_We lapsed into silence for a moment and I found myself remembering how she felt when she first saw Celeborn. I had felt it as keenly as if it had been my own emotion, and I was still feeling a little warm and fuzzy inside._

_“You truly love him, don’t you?” I asked. She didn’t reply, but smiled at me in that way she always does. “I’ve never felt that way before.”_

_“Never, in 300 years?” she asked, though she didn’t seem particularly surprised._

_I shook my head._

_“Well, little one, perhaps one day you will.”_


	17. The Reading

**Seventeen:**

Bilbo had suggested they use Elrond’s study for the reading.

Truthfully, he was surprised he had the confidence to make the suggestion. It was pure chance that had put him in the vicinity when Thorin was discussing it with Dwalin and Balin.

Balin had been in favor of keeping the reading more private. He was worried about what the Lady Elanor might say, and how it would be interpreted by the other members of the company. He also expressed his embarrassment at the prospect of being seen by any Elves during the reading. To be seen giving such credence to Elvish nonsense was far too great a wound to his Dwarvish pride. As far as he was concerned, the fewer people who heard this fortunetelling the better. 

Dwalin had argued, still of the opinion that the lady Elanor posed such a huge threat that the entire company was required to guard their King in her presence. The words “witch” and “sorceress” were used more than once. He was as embarrassed as his brother, but he wanted the reading done in public, where any potential wrongdoing of Elanor’s might be subject to observation.

When Bilbo had spoken up and suggested the study, where there would be ample room for any Dwarf who wanted to come, but still offered a certain degree of privacy, both Dwalin and Balin seemed satisfied. Dwalin had even clapped him on the shoulder with a cry of, “There’s a sensible suggestion, lad!”

Dwalin’s idea of sensible was usually a far cry from Bilbo’s, but the Hobbit had blushed with pride when the two Dwarves nodded along with him. Again he felt a rush of euphoria at the approval of his company members, and for a moment he felt as if he might belong.

Until Thorin scowled at him and said, “This is a matter better left without your influence, Master Hobbit.”

Instantly Bilbo had felt deflated. Whatever rush of warmth he had felt at Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder had receded quickly and coldly at Thorin’s tone of voice. He opened his mouth to argue with the great Dwarf King, but he couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound like the petulant protest of a child. He clapped his mouth closed and took a few steps back, scuttling away from Thorin as if he’d been scolded.

As he backed away he heard Balin defend his suggestion to Thorin. It wasn’t a surprise when Thorin later announced that the reading would take place in Elrond’s study. Bilbo knew it made sense, and that Thorin had rejected it because the suggestion hadn’t first come from one of the Dwarves in attendance. Now he was going with the exact option Bilbo has suggested, but he never gave him credit and he certainly never apologized for his cold dismissal.

The whole thing was infuriating. In his studies, Bilbo had come across several accounts of Dwarves that had painted them as stubborn, greedy and unpleasant creatures that wanted nothing to do with anyone outside their own race. He had always done his best to push away that stereotypical characterization, believing that an entire race of people couldn’t possibly all be that bad. When he had met the company of Thorin Oakenshield, as soon as he had grown accustomed to their decidedly different manners, Bilbo was pleased to discover that he was right not to judge them from his readings. Dwarves were in fact extremely pleasant and loyal to a fault…

If they liked you.

In Thorin, Bilbo was beginning to see the other side of the coin. For some reason, their stoic leader had decided not to like him from the moment he had stepped into Bag End and plied his host with condescending questions, chuckling to himself at Bilbo’s answers. Thorin had taken every opportunity to intimidate and chide him, actively discouraging him from participation and deliberately excluding him from conversations. Despite all this, Bilbo was determined to make him change his mind. He would prove himself useful to this quest and to Thorin Oakenshield before they reached the Lonely Mountain, of that he was certain.

The fact that his suggestion was followed, and that the company of Thorin Oakenshield was currently settling down along the walls of Elrond’s study to watch the reading was a very satisfying thought. Not just because it proved that he had something useful to contribute to this quest, but because he wanted to watch.

When the Lady Elanor had walked in, Gandalf at her side, her eyes widened slightly. Bilbo thought of a festival from his youth when a traveling group of players came to the Shire to put on a play. All of the Hobbit children had sat in cramped rows on the grass before the stage, waiting with excitement for the show to begin. When the first player had emerged, a hush had quickly come over all of them, stifling their chatter like a snuffed-out candle flame. Walking into the study must have seemed to Elanor like walking out onto a stage, the group of Dwarves watching her with great interest. The same sudden silence descended as everyone watched her, and Gandalf smiled.

“I see we are all here, then,” he said cheerfully.

Elanor’s face snapped over to him irritably, and Bilbo got the distinct impression that they had been arguing before entering the room. “I thought this was to be a private meeting,” she said through clenched jaws.

“Nonsense,” Gandalf answered as they made their way to the large table in the center of the room. “It’s not every day the opportunity arises to meet with a true Seer. I imagine each member of this company will have many questions before the day is done—”

SLAP. Elanor slammed both of her hands down onto the tabletop in front of her with surprising force. “No, Ada. Enough. I will look into the future of this quest, but I am not here to tell fortunes like a vagabond at a fair.”

“I hardly understand your hesitation, my dear. This was your idea, after all.” Gandalf appeared to be reaching the end of his patience, a look Bilbo had already come to recognize. 

“I know my own abilities better than you do, Gandalf,” Elanor was arguing. “You may promise results I cannot deliver.”

“You underestimate your power…”

At the mention of Elanor’s power, there came the soft unmistakable sound of muffled laughter. It came from somewhere towards the corner in which Dwalin and Gloin sat, sharing a look. 

Elanor clearly heard it, her face reddening. “You do not understand—”

“ELANOR!” boomed Gandalf in reproach. “DO NOT PRESUME TO LECTURE ME.” The wizard seemed to grow three feet, his voice as loud as thunder, hair blown back by a wind that seemed to come from nowhere. Bilbo suddenly felt short of breath as everyone around him flinched in fear.

Gandalf had done this before in Bag End. No one had been able to stand against the wizard’s magic then, and now was no different. Some of the Dwarves gave audible yelps, and Bilbo fought the instinct to jerk back in his chair. Even Thorin steeled himself at Gandalf’s bellow, but Elanor raged forward until her face was an inch from his.

“DON’T YOU DARE TRY THAT TRICK ON ME!” she shouted. “You know it doesn’t work!”

Gandalf shrank back, his magic receding abruptly. Elanor turned away growling, completely unaware of the shift that had just taken place. None of the Dwarves were laughing at her now. They were all staring at her with varying looks of respect, astonishment and fear. Bilbo’s own mouth had dropped open in wonder as she resisted Gandalf’s magic without even breaking a sweat. Regardless of their views on Foresight, there was no way any member of the company could doubt that Elanor was truly powerful.

Which, Bilbo reflected, was probably exactly what Gandalf had been trying to show them.

“I apologize, my daughter,” he said, emphasizing the word daughter just so, and clearly trying to conceal a satisfied smile. “You know your capabilities better than I. I shall defer to your judgment.”

Elanor turned to him, clearly still annoyed. “I will proceed without you, thank you very much.”

Gandalf raised his eyebrows and for a moment looked like he might argue, but he said, “As you wish,” and left the room with a nod to the Dwarves.

When the door was closed, Elanor’s fury turned to the rest of them. “And you’ll all be watching, I suppose?”

Nobody answered her, suddenly distracted by books on nearby shelves or murals. Elanor frowned but made no further protest, and Thorin approached her slowly, stepping forward cautiously as if she were an easily spooked animal.

“Lady Elanor,” he greeted her.

She nodded in acknowledgment and gestured to the table before her. He sat without hesitation, and Bilbo tried to stave off the sudden jealously that reared itself as he observed their new rapport. Had Thorin abruptly decided Elanor to be trustworthy in the last few hours? He knew from the whispers of his company that Thorin had gone to confront Elanor in the night. One twilight visit to her chambers and she had managed to completely change the Dwarf King’s demeanor toward her? What had she done to deserve such friendly regard? Bilbo was filled with a cold, shivery feeling of both envy and shame as he looked at her, just barely managing to stop an actual physical shiver of disgust from dancing down his spine.

Blissfully unaware of this, Elanor took a breath and looked Thorin in the eye. “I need you to understand—I need all of you to understand,” she amended with a glance out at the company, “the future is not written yet. What I see is not what WILL be but what MAY be. It is what will happen if you continue on your current course, but even the tiniest most seemingly insignificant change can cause you to deviate from that path completely. Indeed it might even be my telling you of it that will cause your entire future to change. Therefore I will not tell you everything I see, but I will advise you as best I can. You have to trust me.”

It was a tribute to the Dwarves’ newfound fear of her power that there was no murmured dissent at this statement. Thorin nodded slowly.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked.

“If I’m to see the future of this quest, I must fully understand the events that set it in motion. My power—” She glanced again at the company, clearly uncomfortable with the audience, but this time there was no snicker. “My power allows me to see into the past as well as the future. If you’ll permit me, I will be able to see your memories of Smaug’s attack on Erebor.”

Thorin stiffened, leaning away slightly. “You will see my memories?”

She nodded. “If you concentrate on your quest I will not see anything else. I promise.”

Clearly uneasy, Thorin looked over at his company for assurance. By chance his eyes met Bilbo’s. Surprised, Bilbo did the first thing he could think of, which was to smile encouragingly. Thorin looked away quickly, and Bilbo’s heart dropped down another few inches toward his stomach. What on Middle Earth had possessed him to react so stupidly? But even if his smile hadn’t been the reassurance Thorin was looking for, it still seemed to work, as he turned back to Elanor and nodded.

She slid her hands across the table towards him. “I’ll need your hands.” Thorin begrudgingly placed his hands in hers and she took a long, steadying breath. “Think of the dragon,” she said. “Think of Smaug.”

Silence descended onto the room. Elanor kept her eyes on Thorin’s face and for a while it looked as though nothing was happening. Thorin avoided her eyes at first, looking down at the table or up at the walls, but after a few minutes he seemed to settle and his eyes drifted up to her face.

Bilbo waited for Thorin to reach the limits of his patience and break off the eye contact, but he didn’t look away. If anything he seemed to relax once he met Elanor’s eyes. Bilbo felt a pang of jealousy again. The way they were looking at each other was making him uncomfortable. Maybe it was the ease with which Thorin sat at such close proximity with her, when he could still barely stand to be in the same room with Bilbo, even months into their journey. 

But almost as soon as he had identified this feeling, another took its place. It was the third time he’d felt it here in Rivendell, and the second time he’d felt it in the Lady’s presence. By now he could easily recognize it: Magic.

Something had changed, and it was evident even to those who couldn’t sense the subtle electricity in the air. Whereas before Elanor and Thorin had merely looked like they were gazing into each other’s eyes, now they looked unnaturally still. It was as if Bilbo were looking at a sculpture rather than two flesh and blood beings. A trance had come over both of them, and even though it must surely be an illusion, Bilbo could almost see the connective thread of magic passing between them. 

After a moment, movement returned. Elanor was starting to breathe faster, as if she was in distress. Her hands were gripping Thorin’s so tightly that her knuckles were white, and Bilbo could see by the sunlight reflecting off her eyes that they were bright with unshed tears. Thorin was staring at her with the same intensity. At first Bilbo thought it was out of concern for her welfare, but soon he noticed that Thorin’s face mirrored Elanor’s exactly.

When Bilbo saw their parallel expressions, he realized what was happening: Elanor had said she could see the past, and had told Thorin to think of the dragon. Elanor was seeing the destruction of Erebor. She was seeing Thorin’s memories. 

Elanor continued to breath heavily, faster and faster until it seemed she might faint, and suddenly her face and hands went slack. He fingers slipped from Thorin’s grip, trailing across the tabletop as her arms went limp. Her tears finally overflowed down her cheeks, but her eyes were unblinking, her expression blank. Thorin came back to himself with a few blinks and looked to her expectantly, but she didn’t seem to see him sitting before her. She stared into nothingness, catatonic and unmoving except for her chest, expanding and contracting with every breath. When her lips parted, it seemed almost as if she had no control over it, her mouth opening as her voice eked out, soft and deep and raspy:

“Far over… the Misty Mountains cold…” 

Bilbo looked up in surprise. Around him, the Dwarves were quickly growing tense. It was the song they had sung at Bag End the night before they’d set out on this quest. Bofur had later explained to him the honor of hearing the song, which was fiercely protected. It was a personal account of the pain the Dwarves of Erebor had felt as they watched their city burn, and the loneliness and isolation that followed. Outsiders rarely heard it, and even though they had sung it for him once, Bilbo knew he could never sing it from memory.

But Elanor sang it perfectly and with all the emotion and gravity that Bilbo had heard in Thorin’s voice that night in Bag End.

“The trees like torches, bathed with light…”

Suddenly, as if the spell had broken all at once, Elanor gasped and pulled her hands to her face. They flew to her mouth, barely containing her moan as she cried. She doubled over in her seat, folding at the waist as if she’d been punched. Her breaths were coming in quick gasps as she frantically wiped away her tears, trying to pull herself together. Slowly lifting her head, she looked at Thorin and then quickly over at the other Dwarves.

“I’d like to speak to Thorin alone, if I may,” she said when she had calmed down enough to speak.

Thorin turned to his company and nodded. One by one the Dwarves began to hesitantly file out. None looked particularly happy about it, and Bilbo felt another stab of jealously at the high regard Thorin suddenly seemed to be paying the lady. What had happened between them in the last few hours to turn Thorin’s icy distrust around so completely? Bilbo considered the possibilities, but quickly shook his head, snapping himself out of such negative thinking.

Inwardly he scolded himself. Hadn’t he the previous evening been worried that Thorin posed Elanor a legitimate threat? He liked Elanor, and if she and Thorin were getting along, that was a good thing. Jumping to conclusions about what had changed Thorin’s mind was unfair to her.

Still, he couldn’t help but look back as he made his way out of the room. Thorin was looking at Elanor with curiosity plain on his face. He had never once looked at Bilbo with such a soft expression. Bilbo almost didn’t recognize him, and wished it was himself sitting across from Thorin instead of Elanor.

He sighed, and shut the door behind him.


	18. The Reading, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im so sorry for my long absence! I was working on something else for NaNoWriMo, so this slipped through the cracks! And then the holidays came and it was all a blur! Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews or kudos, each notification in my inbox was like a tiny slap reminding me to get back to work!

**Eighteen:**

The lady was shaking. The blood had drained from her face and lips and sweat had broken out on her brow. She looked like she’d seen a ghost—wild-eyed and breathing hard—and the lengths to which she was going to hide it from him had convinced him that it was genuine.

His Company had departed the room several minutes ago, but Elanor had still not said anything. Politely drawing attention away from the outstretched silence, Thorin had stood and walked to the other side of the room to fetch them two glasses of water. He placed hers on the table in front of her and she looked at it critically for a moment before she wrapped her quivering fingers around it. It was another few seconds before she could manage to bring it to her lips, so violently were her hands trembling.

If he was to believe that her powers were real, then he knew what she had seen. He had relived the vision of Smaug destroying his home and killing his countrymen as vividly as if he had been there again. He would have himself been as shaken as she so clearly was—but he saw it every night in his dreams.

He knew better than anyone the terror that was Smaug. Even the other of his kin who had survived the assault did not understand the true extent of his anguish. It was tragedy to see your home burn, your loved ones killed. But he had lost more than any of them when the Fire-Drake had flown down from the North. He had not just lost his home, not just the kingdom that he would have presided over, but a piece of himself.

He was a prince, and to be a prince meant more than an impressive title and a comfortable life. To be a prince meant that he was responsible for the wellbeing of his people. He was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to care for them. All this trust had been placed in him and his family, and he’d been able to do nothing but watch them burn.

He knew that this mission was dangerous beyond the telling of it. If they arrived at Erebor and the dragon had not gone from the mountain, the consequences would be devastating. They risked unleashing that same hell on a new people, or to die in the same fiery inferno they’d escaped decades before. He would condemn his nephews to the death their mother had barely escaped. 

Each time someone told him how foolhardy it was to return to the mountain, a small part of him agreed. He tried to push away that voice inside him, telling himself it was cowardice that held the others back, and that he was possessed of nothing but honor and bravery. He didn’t want to admit that it was his own recklessness that drove him forward. Each night that had passed since his exile he had dreamed of his revenge. His mind recalled Smaug’s attack in more and more vivid detail every night, and soon he found himself craving the danger of confronting the monster that had brought so much death. 

Now, reliving that day in such stark clarity, he found himself afraid. Not of the dragon, but afraid that the Lady Elanor would tell him to turn back. The vision had been so real he had felt the ground of Erebor beneath his feet as he watched Smaug lay waste to his home, and it was enough to plant the seed of doubt. He wondered for the first time if he truly had the right to ask the others to follow him into this war. If she told him at this very moment to abandon the quest and return to the Blue Mountains, he was afraid that he might agree.

Elanor was taking slow, deep breaths; holding between inhales and exhales for the same amount of seconds each time. After a few moments, she looked up at him with an ineffable expression on her face. 

“I’ve heard Dwarves are very strong,” she said. Her voice was softer than he had ever heard it, and her accent seemed…flat somehow. She sounded foreign suddenly, as if a completely new person had emerged from the vision they had shared. 

“We are,” he answered.

She was nodding, and when she spoke again, the stranger’s voice was gone and she sounded normal again. “You must be, to carry the weight of all that you’ve seen.” 

His mind preoccupied, he bristled against the courtly compliment. It was just the two of them now; surely they could skip the formalities. “Speak true,” he said. “You have seen what Smaug is. Will you tell me to turn back? Will you tell me not to retake the mountain?”

She shook her head. “This is what I know. You have come too far to go back. If you reach the mountain, you must retake it. The dragon must be expelled and Erebor once again return to the hands of your people. To fail would bring consequences that could ripple out to the detriment of all of Middle Earth. To fail may very well destroy us all.”

And so it was. His quest was larger than even he thought it. 

This mission was not about reclaiming his home. It was not about giving his nephews a legacy that stood firm against the harsh winds of change. He and his company in fact held the entire fate of Middle Earth in their hands.

Another Dwarf might have been daunted by the prospect. Another Dwarf might have decided the stakes were too high, and turn tail and run. But another Dwarf had not been robbed of his purpose with such violence as he had the day Smaug had destroyed his kingdom. Another Dwarf had not been told in so many words that he and his people were nothing but ash. If anything, Elanor’s prophecy proved what he had always believed, that he and his people were just as important as any Man or any Elf that wrote fine books of history, painting his people as money-grubbers and thieves. 

It proved that what he was fighting for was worth it.

Relief coursed through him. It was so deep and acute that his shoulders began to shake with barely contained laughter.

Elanor began to smile at his mirth, and he wondered if their minds were still somehow linked. “This news excites you?”

“Somewhat,” he admitted. “I have been—” He stopped himself before he could say “afraid.” A glance at the lady’s face saw her looking at him again with that same expression, all at once unfathomable yet somehow conveying perfect understanding. “I have thought my reasons for re-taking Erebor have not been entirely selfless.” 

Normally he might hesitate at sharing something like this, particularly with someone he deemed less than trustworthy. But since he had let Lady Elanor into his memories, it seemed a less drastic maneuver to let her into his confidence. He opened his mouth to express what he felt, but he could not find the words. 

The lady’s hand slid across the table, no longer shaking. Pale and delicately boned, it covered barely half of his when she wrapped her fingers around his. Her skin was soft and impeccably clean, making his seem rough and filthy. He curbed his instinct to pull away, now that physical contact was no longer required. But there was no one here to see this breach of propriety, and so he let his hand be held.

“I know what you feel,” she said. The statement was one he had heard before, but coming from a Seer it seemed to take on a different meaning.

“Do you?”

Elanor met his eyes. “There is a fire inside you that is guttering,” she said. “And you’re afraid it may soon go out.” 

Thorin pulled his hand away, standing so abruptly that he might as well have agreed outright with what she had said. His reaction was too involuntary to be stopped, but it would undoubtedly tell her that she was absolutely right. In truth he was astounded at how accurately her chosen words described what he felt. 

When he had wandered with his people seeking refuge from Erebor, they had moved from temporary camp to temporary camp. Building fires at each stop for so many people took precious time each night. One of his father’s guardsmen had told him of a way to keep a living coal alive in a hollowed-out animal horn, cushioned by a bed of moss. Carrying the living coal from camp to camp meant that a fire could be started more quickly once they settled, but it required almost constant attention. The person designated to carry the coal had to tend it, feeding it if it began to die, blowing on it if it lacked oxygen. 

Often on their journey Thorin had felt like that smoldering coal; his fire would dip and need to be rejuvenated. They would find a village that might take them in and give them work, and his fire would be fed and burn with pride until the day came that they had overstayed their welcome. It had burned steadily at first when they had established their new home, but had started to die slowly as the search for his father continued to no avail. He would try to tend the flame, bolstering himself temporarily, but the process was exhausting. More and more he felt the temptation to let the coal die, knowing full well how much harder it would be to start a fire from scratch.

This quest gave him reason to burn. His Company around him benefitted so from the warmth that he could not in good conscience give up. But if they did not reach the mountain, or if they failed to retake the kingdom, he feared the spark inside him would never be rekindled.

And then there was another more sinister possibility…

“My grandfather had a fire as well,” he said. “But his raged unchecked, and destroyed all that he had built as much as Smaug did.”

“A fire can be a weapon or a tool,” said Elanor practically. “It’s easy enough to keep a fire from spreading. You find someone to tend the flames.” She stood from the table and took a few, tentative steps toward him. “You did not choose your companions idly, Thorin Oakensheild. A thousand obstacles stand between you and your goal. If you are to triumph you will need each and every one of them, and you will need to be ready to accept their help.”

Slowly, he nodded. 

“And this goes for the Hobbit as well,” she added.

At this he scoffed. “The whim of a Wizard,” he muttered under his breath, and then louder: “Master Baggins has proved to be nothing but a hindrance—”

She did not let him finish. “You underestimate him. He is as valuable to this quest as anyone else.”

His patience was beginning to wane. He had agreed to have his future seen and this was the advice he was given? She seemed to know his thoughts, which leant credence to his theory that their minds might still be linked. Though it was more likely that she was reading his facial expressions.

“I cannot tell you if you will reach the mountain,” she said. “I cannot tell you if you will be successful if you do. I can only tell you that the path to victory is in trusting your companions. Listening to them.”

She hesitated. There was something she wasn’t telling him, and he had the distinct feeling that she knew exactly how this quest would end. What he could not tell was why she was keeping silent. Two possibilities entered his mind: Either the outcome that she saw was negative and she wanted to change it, or it was positive and she feared throwing it off course. Slowly she took the remaining steps to cross the distance between them, and placed her tiny hand on the side of his cheek.

“Don’t shut them out.”


	19. I am 499 years old

**Nineteen:**

_I am 499 years old._

_And the day has come. The Innkeeper here is of a completely different family than the one who owned the Prancing Pony when I worked here. But he is familiar enough with Gandalf to have given me a good room. I only need it for a night. I will have to go back to Lothlorien immediately. I simply could not resist coming. I had to see him. Just once, before it all gets started._

_I am in disguise. I am sitting in a far corner booth, wreathed in shadow. I have told the serving girls to leave me be, lest his eye follow one of them to my hiding spot. I am close enough to hear his voice._

_“This is no chance meeting, is it?” he asks the Wizard seated across from him._

_Of course not. Who do you think told Gandalf you would be here?_

_He is everything I dreamed he would be. Strong and stately. Fierce. Regal. Pained. And when my father tells him the purpose of this meeting I see his eyes open up to all the possibilities now laid out before him._

_Erebor._

_Home._

_This is the moment I have waited nearly 500 years for. This is the moment that sets it all in motion. The Quest for Erebor will uncover the Ring, which will begin the War, which will Save the World._

_This is why I have trained in combat. This is why I have traveled across Middle Earth. This is why I have learned the Healing Arts. This is why I know the languages of Elves and Men and Dwarves. I have been preparing for this journey._

_Thorin Oakenshield was going to Erebor. And I was going with him._


	20. The Prince's Question

**Twenty:**

Fili found her in the gardens, almost as far away from the company’s camp as one could get without leaving the borders of Imladris. She was sitting spread on the ground with her strange lute in her lap, plucking at the strings, stopping occasionally to jot down a few words in the notebook on the ground in front of her. 

The sun had set fully, but Rivendell was still bustling just after evening meals. Thorin had decreed that they would leave at first light. Whatever she had told him about their quest had fueled his desire to get back on the road. The rest of the company was currently rushing from point to point, making sure they had the necessary supplies to take to the road. He should have been making final preparations as well, sharpening his daggers and repacking his rucksack, but instead he had found himself seeking out the Seer who had put such a fire in his uncle’s heart.

He approached silently, so as not to disturb her. She seemed utterly lost in her task, plucking out a few notes, humming a melody under her breath. 

“I see fire,” she was intoning, making marks on the page in front of her. “Inside the mountain… I see fire…” She trailed off and ticked down the page, mumbling more words as she went down. 

He watched her, intuiting that she was writing a song. The way she was mumbling words, writing them down and then repeating them clearly indicated that she was composing. The little bits he heard at a time were beautiful and sorrowful, and he marveled at her talent. To him, it looked less like she was writing the song and more like the song was already written. He had heard the same of great artists from time to time. He remembered hearing of the great kings carved into the side of the mountain at Erebor. His people had often said that it was as if the kings were always there within the rock, and it had only taken a skilled craftsman to bring them out. 

Knowing that it undoubtedly took a huge amount of concentration to bring forth the beauty trapped inside the stone, he stayed silent, hanging back in the shadows as she puttered with the instrument.

He had never shared his brother’s abandon when it came to seeking out the most beautiful women of every race. He had never been particularly attracted to Elves or the women of the race of Men, but there was no denying Elanor’s beauty. She was light and willowy, with absurdly soft hair that fluttered and curled. Her bones seemed so delicate it was a wonder they could support her frame. Outwardly she seemed like a being made of fine pottery that must be handled delicately lest it crack. But beneath all that unattractiveness, there was a strength to her that Fili found undeniably appealing. 

When she paused to readjust her seated position, he almost came forward to announce his presence, but stopped short when she hoisted the lute-like contraption up into her lap and strummed out a short, precise collection of sounds.

“Oh, misty eye of the mountain below…” she sang, and he found himself rooted to the spot. “Keep careful watch of my brother’s souls.”

Fili had heard her sing at the dinner, and had been absorbed by her melodious voice on that occasion, and even more so now. Then she had been in front of an audience, intent on entertaining them and pleasing them. Now she was playing only for herself, and he felt almost guilty in listening. 

“And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke,” she sang, “keep watching over Durin’s sons.”

Fili’s foot froze in mid-stride forward, stilled by the words she sang. 

The song was like a prayer, wishing safe travels to those who would go forward to fight a dragon. After her vision she had sung their sacred song that told the tale of Erebor’s destruction, and this one seemed just as reverent, just as hallowed as that one had been. But she sang these words as if she would be the one to face down the beast; as if she were a member of Thorin’s company as well. 

Perhaps she was writing it as a gift. Perhaps she felt guilty for the way she had poached their sacred song, and this was her way of giving something back in exchange. Or maybe she was composing it to sing after they all inevitably died in flames. He swallowed hard at the thought that by Durin’s Day, nothing might remain of him but songs and stories. 

But as the song progressed and he really listened to the lyrics, another thought came to mind: She had told Uncle that she would be able to see his memories of Smaug’s attack. She had held his hands and supposedly seen the event through his eyes. It was entirely possible that she had felt what he had felt at the time as well. The lyrics seemed to be sung by someone who had watched the attack firsthand. And more than that, there was an ownership to the song that belied a more meaningful connection than that of a bystander. 

Could she be singing Thorin’s words? His uncle was no poet. He could never write a song that would do justice to the horror that had played out before his very eyes. But if he had possessed that gift, would the song he wrote sound like this? 

He never spoke of the ordeal. At least, not beyond the black and white facts. He had never told Fili how it had felt to see everything his father and his father’s father had built destroyed in one fell swoop. He never expressed how it felt to have survived when so many perished. Instead he had left Fili to believe he was unshaken by it, untouched by the fire. But as Fili listened to the words of Elanor’s song, he began to realize what his uncle must have felt that day. What he must feel every day. 

In all of Fili’s memories of his uncle, he could never recall seeing him unburdened. Even in those few moments of happiness and tenderness that passed in their family gatherings; there was always a shadow to Thorin’s mirth. It was as if his uncle could not feel joy without also experiencing the fear that it would be taken from him, as so much had been already. Thorin’s smile would falter when he thought no one was looking, and the weight would creep back in. But Fili was always looking, though not understanding until now what he was seeing. They had all seen Elanor’s face after she saw his uncle’s memories, how she had been barely able to keep her composure. Now Fili was beginning to understand that Thorin lived in those memories constantly, barely able to see beyond the smoking ruin Smaug had left behind.

When the song ended, he stayed put, intending to let enough time pass that Elanor did not suspect that he had been present to hear her very personal song. But the moment she placed her lute on the ground in front of her, she swiveled her body to face him, as if she’d known he was there the whole time. 

Caught, he managed a hasty bow, thankful to hide the blush creeping up his face. 

“What can I do for you, Master Fili?” she asked, a trace of song still in her voice.

“I am sorry to disturb you, my lady.” He came forward uncertainly. She rose from where she was seated on the ground and stepped over to a bench by one of the golden fountains in the garden’s center. There was space next to her for him to sit down, but he remained standing.

“The reading you gave my uncle seemed to be very effective,” he told her, being careful not to indicate that their departure was imminent. They would be leaving in secret at first light, and not even Elanor had earned enough trust to be included in that confidence. 

She cocked her head and Fili sensed that she was waiting for some kind of contradictory comment from him. Too many of his company had openly mocked her gift, he realized. He felt a surge of shame on behalf of his kin. The rush of disgrace was enough to shake off his hesitance and he stepped in front of her and gave a deep, formal bow. 

“My Lady, I deeply apologize if any of the company have offended you. Only a fool could deny that you have great power and insight. We were lucky to have met you.”

The customary reply did not come and Fili risked a glance up from his bow. She was staring at him, not quite open-mouthed but certainly as close to it as a high lady of Men might get. When she realized that he was looking at her expectantly, she regained her poise.

“Not at all, Master Fili. I completely understand your company’s…caution. I only hope I have been of assistance.” 

Their exchange of formal pleasantries completed, he should have excused himself and gone back to camp to ready himself for their leave-taking. But he had come here for a reason, and that reason was not to apologize.

“Was there something else?” she asked.

Finally he sat on the bench next to her, unsure of where to start. “My Lady, I remember what you said in the study…about the future not being written…”

He trailed off, but she seemed to understand a little of what he was trying to say. 

“Yes. It is the difficult thing about the gift of Foresight. Often the Seer may cause the very events she was trying to avert. One must be very careful exactly how much information one shares.”

He nodded. “I understand. I will not ask you if we are to succeed. Or if we will survive. It’s only…” He took a breath, drawing himself up at the spine. “My uncle has no sons. If he should fall… or if he should rule without leaving an heir, I will become King Under the Mountain after him.”

Elanor nodded. She would know that, or course. That much was common knowledge. 

“I only want to know… Will I be a good king?”

He had not been able to look at her when he asked the question, so persistently did the subject gnaw at him. But after a long moment stretched by with no reply from the lady, he looked up into her face.

What he saw there was incomprehensible. His first thought when he looked into her eyes was of profound sorrow, but even as he thought it, he changed his mind. It seemed instead like she was looking at him with tenderness. She smiled and her eyes seemed to sparkle with unshed tears. Perhaps it was just the lamplight reflecting off of the fountain’s water, because when she answered his question, she did it with a joy in her voice that contradicted the grief in her expression.

“Yes, Fili. You will be a great king.”


	21. I was 500 years old

**Twenty-One:**

I was 500 years old. 

Everything I had learned, everything I had lived through had prepared me for this moment. 

I was crouching on a hidden peak, high in the trees of Rivendell’s border, just inside the Southern Gate. The sun was about to rise, coloring the sky a soft pink, warming the air just enough to call up a fine mist from the moss-covered ground that marked the route out of Imladris. Hidden by the lingering darkness, Thorin’s company moved swiftly and quietly on the path below me, out of the Elven city and into the wild.

From here they would resume their journey toward Erebor, facing Goblins, Orcs and Wargs before they once again met the Dragon to whom they’d lost everything. They would trek across unforgiving terrain, climbing rocky peaks and scaling treacherous hills. They would struggle through rushing waters and find themselves exposed to dangerous temperatures and elements. They would do battle with blades and with words and face the constant risk of starvation or dehydration or exposure. And in the middle of all these seasoned warriors was a lone Hobbit, completely unaccustomed to anything of the sort.

500 years ago I had come to this country as weak and vulnerable as he. But unlike Bilbo, I’d had half a millennium to prepare for my journey. I had learned all the skills I’d thought I would need on this quest, and I had prepared. I had weapons; a bow and a quiver of arrows, and two lightweight blades made by the finest smiths in Lothlorien. I knew how to use them, having trained all my life against partners of all sizes and skills. I had broken in my boots and found trousers that would be warm in the night but breathed reasonably well if temperatures rose. I had a cloak that was thick enough to serve as a blanket on nights when a fire was inadvisable. I’d had the kitchens make me travel rations that would last months. I’d strapped a waterbag to my hip and plaited my hair back so that it wouldn’t fall into my eyes. 

And I was still afraid.

What must Bilbo be feeling, setting out on this quest knowing the dangers that lay ahead? He was no doubt terrified, but still I could see him down below, dutifully following without complaint. 

Thorin was at the head of the company, blazing a trail of his own, leaving the well-traveled road that curved down from the gate. He took his first steps off that path like a Dwarf with purpose, with only a faded map and an old memory of home to guide him through the unfamiliar landscape. 

I had a map of my own which showed the path he would take, before he knew he would take it. I knew what detours he would end up making. I knew exactly what he would face and when he would face it, and even with all this knowledge I was still afraid. How could I not be? I had seen his memories of Smaug’s first attack, and felt what he’d felt as he watched his city and his people burn. Now he was charging headlong back into the breach, and he didn’t seem to waiver at all. 

Fili was a few paces behind his uncle. Now I could see the way he looked at him, not only to follow his King’s lead, but to see HOW to lead. The young heir took his steps just as purposefully, trying his best to mirror Thorin’s bearing, his gait, and the way he squared his shoulders as he walked. Fili would be thinking not of the Dragon, but of the way his uncle had placed his trust in him, and what it would mean should he fail to live up to that trust. 

Kili walked towards the rear of the company, his bow at the ready, guarding against possible attack from behind. Now that there were no eyes on him, his easy smile was gone. His shoulders were hunched with tension and his brow was furrowed in a frown. Now that he had no one to jest with, his confidence was gone, leaving only his youth and his fear behind on his beardless face. 

They must all be terrified as they set out to do this impossible thing. I hid myself from them as they glanced back toward the Elven city. Even knowing that they would succeed, I was shaking with fear myself. 

I had eternal life. I healed. But I wasn’t so strong and I still felt pain. It was one thing to get stabbed by an orc and fight through the agony as my wound healed. The skin would knit together and the pain would be forgotten by the time my opponent hit the ground. But fire was another story. If I got caught in a dragon’s flame I would burn for as long as the fire did, without the sweet release of death to spare me from the agony and every time I closed my eyes I saw myself on fire. 

I saw myself in pain.

And though I knew the Dwarves would retake the stronghold of Erebor, I also knew the terrible price that would be paid along the way. As I watched the last of the Company disappear into the trees beyond Rivendell’s border, I thought about what was at stake. 

I saw Fili dead. I saw Kili dead. I saw Thorin dead.

And I saw myself unable to stop it. 

Was this a vision? Was I seeing what would actually happen if I went with them on their quest? Was my gift of foresight warning me that I wouldn’t be able to stop it? 

No. I shook my head to dispel my dread and thought of Bilbo again. Elrond had offered him the chance to stay and he’d turned it down. He had held to his word, despite his fear, despite nothing but disdain from Thorin, and if he could do it I could do it. 

I was 500 years old. I was totally prepared for this. I had a bow. I had a quiver full of arrows. I had two lightweight blades on a belt of fine leather. My clothes were durable, yet fashionable. My boots were broke the FUCK in. I had food, I had water, and most importantly I’d made journeys like this for FUN. There was no wound I could not heal from, no pain I would not live through. There was no target I could not hit and no enemy I could not unbalance or outrun. 

I could do this.

I was MEANT to do this.

I would NOT cower in fear when lives were on the line. Not when I might be the difference between life and three meaningless deaths. I had not been lying. Fili would be a great king, but so would Thorin, and I needed to do my best to ensure that Erebor saw both on the throne.

The time for preparation had passed. I had left my notes and my sketches and my diaries behind. I planned to follow behind the company until enough distance had passed from Rivendell. The last thing I wanted was some kind of argument about bringing me back to Imladris. I needed to wait until we were a good distance away before I revealed myself to them. As the company passed out of sight of my hiding place I stood, brushing the dirt from my hands. My heels dug into the soil and I took a deep breath, repeating my mantra to myself:

_I am 500 years old. I am Elanor the Immortal. And I am going to save their lives._

 

 

 

To be continued in Part Two.


End file.
